A Series of Unnaturally Close Encounters
by Leraiv Snape
Summary: REVIEWER RUN! A series of unrelated oneshots featuring all of the ideas that all reviewers give me. A bit experimental. Chapter Seven: Hermione Granger Severus Snape, a short one-shot featuring non-grapic adultery.
1. Table of Contents

Disclaimer: Everything belongs, to my deepest regret, to JKR, Warner Bros, Scholastic, etc. All my repsect and my thanks for allowing us to dabble in this world of your creation.

A Series of Unnaturally Close Enounters: Table of Contents

Sorry, this chapter is purely Author's Notes to render explanation for this zany idea followed by a Table of Contents that I thought I would start writing now that the chapters are beginning to mount up and I'd rather the fic be navigable than a total mess.

The basic idea runs thusly: we have all of these "reviewer run" stories- where people ask for suggestions and use them, but have a basic plot line in mind. The idea driving this fic is that it will be entirely reviewer-run one-shots of any kind of encounter between any characters in the Harry Potter universe that anyone wants to see. It's like the challenges- you lay the rules and I do my best to write them.

The result, of course, is that there is no coherent plot to this from chapter to chapter. But the one-shots are thrown completely open. Ask for anything- from sweet to action to bizarre to sadistic, any relationship, any specifics you'd like: POV, what lines have to be used and by whom, lyrics from songs, etc. Slash requests from both genders are perfectly acceptable. (I would love to know who to credit for all materials, so if songs are asked for or lines borrowed from other films or books, just give me the appropriate names, thanks!)

The only limitation is that it would have to be a piece that could be done in one chapter and my final warning is that I do not think of myself as a humorous writer, so asking for a parody or witty dialogue might be difficult, though I am willing to give it a try.

This fic will have no plot – just a conglomeration of what people say they want me to write. All credit for ideas will be given to those who generate them. It's an experiment – if it fails, this piece will certainly not be continued as it will have nowhere to go.

The following is the Table of Contents, which will probably be updated every chapter that I post. This is intended as a helpful guide to those who wish only to read certain pairings or certain kinds of stories, and I shall do my best to give an accurate despcription of each story without re-writing them. Hopefully this makes reading this piece a lot easier.

Read at your leisure, enjoy and pitch me whatever ideas come your way! The first chapter is one of my own invention.

Chapter One: Forgotten Dreamers: A story that borders on the soft side of a "Teen" rating. On the order of 1300 words, it 'ships Minerva McGonagall and Tom Riddle when they meet after a battle in the Ministry between the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters. Bittersweet.

Chapter Two: To Choose a World: Severus Snape-Hermione Granger. "Teen". My one-shot thought on the MLC and what Hermione would do if forced to wed a stranger. Definitely a romance. 3500 words.

Chapter Three: Conversion: Minerva McGonagall-Lucius Malfoy. "Teen". This story explores a relationship between the Transfiguration teacher and her Slytherin student, and how, exactly, Lucius Malfoy was convinced to take the Dark Mark. Bittersweet. 10,000 words

Chapter Four: War's Bedfellows: Lily Potter-Lucius Malfoy. "Mature." In a series of encounters with the Death Eaters in the last year of Lily's life, she finds herself and her son spared several times by Lucius Malfoy. She is drawn to him by his own feelings as a parent and the desperate need to provide for their infants in a collapsing world. Bittersweet. 7500 words.

Chapter Five: Out of Ashes: Hermione Granger-Bill Weasley. "K+". An action-adventure piece with a smidgeon of romance tossed in on the side. Seven years after the war, Hermione is sent by the Ministry to unlock a cursed mountain. She finds there not only Bill Weasley's professional team but evidence of a Ministry conspiracy from the Voldemort War. 6600 words.

Chapter Six: The Trial: Lucius Malfoy-Hermione Granger. "Teen." After the incident in the Department of Mysteries in "Order of the Phoenix", Lucius Malfoy is put on trial. Hermione, his lover of several months, and Draco have to deal with the fallout. Romance – mostly happy ending – story with a slightly harder edge. 11,300 words.

Chapter 7: A World that Might Have Been: Voldemort-Hermione. "K+". A short, mildly reflective piece. Hermione Peverell is watching Little League Quidditch and thinking about the world that she changed and the rippling effects her actions forty years prior have wrought. 3100 words.


	2. Forgotten Dreamers

Disclaimer: I own none of this, these are just toys for my imagination to enjoy.

A/N: This first chapter is one I dreamed up years ago - I once thought it would be part of a larger story, but I couldn't find the rest to fit and finally decided that perhaps a one-shot was precisely all that was needed. Enjoy!

Forgotten Dreamers

The attack had gone horribly wrong. No one knew why, either, but it had. The Ministry was upside-down and inside-out, the dying draped over splintered desks and fountains, water bubbling everywhere from the cracked marble, making the wet, dark floor treacherous.

'_Expelliarmus!_' she heard Potter cry, and then the boy skidded to a halt in front of her. 'Neville-' he choked, pointing to a door on the right that led to the Auror's wing. She started in that direction, only to collapse as Remus Lupin hurtled into her, sliding on the floor, carrying something…

'Remus?' she whispered.

'Minerva! Get the hell out of here! Take Harry and run!'

'What's going on? Potter said something about Longbottom,' and she stopped, for the moonlight shafting through the window revealed what Lupin was carrying: blank eyes stared from the round face of Neville Longbottom.

'He got Bellatrix Lestrange- killed her with a heavy vase, but Dolohov killed him right after,' Lupin struggled to control his voice, but Minerva could see the wetness streaking his cheeks that had nothing to do with the fountain's overflow.

'Potter!" she cried. "Get out of here!'

'Professor- Ron and Hermione-!'

'We're here, mate!' Weasley and Granger were hurrying across the floor. Both had bloody gashes on their faces, and Granger's robes had been ripped clean away at mid-thigh, exposing torn flesh on her legs.

'Get out!' Minerva ordered a final time. 'You too, Remus.'

'You won't hear me argue,' Lupin rose, still clutching the body. 'His grandmother has the right to bury him,' he told her questioning glance. 'Come on, you three,' they hurried towards the exit, where windows had been blown open, leaving sinister, jagged shards that gaped like uneven teeth in the mouths of the windows.

There were others here, how many, she didn't know. She had seen Luna Lovegood hurtle over the edge of the roof with Draco Malfoy, screaming curses and clinging to him. There was no chance that either had survived that fall. But other than Malfoy and Bellatrix, Minerva could not say how many they had killed. The bodies sprawled in the entryway of the Ministry were almost entirely those of the Order and the Auror Core.

She saw a bang, and a streak of scarlet and gold fluttered into the night, heading for Hogwarts. Albus was out, then, and, glancing over her shoulder she saw Remus Lupin vanish out the window, the three students with him. Potter was gone as well. Ginny Weasley, her father Arthur, Mad-Eye, Kingsley, Dawlish, Diggle, Fletcher and a host of others were either still inside or else had fled. There was nothing to be done now. She prepared herself to leave…

She was not prepared to turn to see him, gliding up the hall like a dense, unnatural ghost, chilling the air with his very presence. In all her years of fighting him, she had never faced him alone, and never like this.

'One final defender,' he said smoothly, his voice ringing with quiet laughter, 'one last fighter, still standing, so brave.'

Minerva brought her wand up steadily. She was surprised to see that her hand did not shake. There was nowhere to hide, and she could not hope to run.

'Defending that which you could neither comprehend nor wish to protect,' she replied in a strangely steady voice. 'Come on, then.' It remained strong and full. And it had an effect she did not expect.

'Minerva McGonagall?' She caught her breath as he stopped, eyes widening. The voice had changed. High, cold and hard had abruptly become far more human, deeper and pleasant. A voice she had known so many years ago, a voice she knew as intimately as her own, a voice she had spent days weeping over when it's owner was presumed dead…

She really looked into his face, a face she hadn't ever seen before, as he always covered it with a cloak. The pale skin and curving, contemptuous mouth were all that remained of the boy she had known, but it was undeniably he. 'Tom?' her mouth was dry.

'I'm shocked,' the red eyes flickered over her, and Minerva was suddenly aware of her age as she had not been in decades. Sixty-four was _old_, no matter that she wore her age well and her hair was still mostly black and her skin almost firm.

'Not the girl you remember?' she asked, her wand dropping, her arm suddenly to heavy to carry it.

'That's not what I was thinking. Only surprised that you remember me, or rather, remember the boy I was,' he stepped closer, one of his pale, spider-like hands reaching up to touch her forehead and trail on her cheek. His touch was cold, but it always had been, even when they were young. 'I've not seen you in years, Minerva.'

Minerva raised her head to stare in the livid eyes with their catlike slits for pupils. 'I did not know it was you, I did not know you were there…I have never seen you uncloaked when I've fought you.'

'Fought me?' he stiffened, his hand retracting. The eyes narrowed. 'You?'

'For twenty-five years. _Lord_ _Voldemort_. I have been working for Albus Dumbledore for forty-one years now.'

'Dumbledore,' he hissed.

'Yes, Albus Dumbledore.' It pleased her to see the pain this caused in him. After all, he had been the one to simply disappear one day, causing her months of agony, Galleons in the search…

'That is a true shame,' he said thoughtfully, tilting his head so the moonlight glinted off his eyes, giving them a spirit-like quality. 'And to think, I had plans to invite to join me…but you were so serious then about being an Auror…'

He laughed, and his voice was back to the coldness she had heard from Lord Voldemort in their massive battles before. 'You know, of course, that I can't allow you to walk away from this? That I can't afford for you to live to report it.'

'Report this? The meeting of two old lovers in the middle of a battlefield, where your Death Eaters have slaughtered our side?' She shook her head, gave him a serious look, and felt the weight of her lifetime collapse on her shoulders. That Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort was too much. She seemed very tired all at once, and quite beyond caring. Some part of her stirred, thinking she should have been angry at Albus, furious that he had not told her…but she couldn't quite summon the emotion. She watched Voldemorts wand, still dangling limply at his side, with a sort of curiosity, as if wondering what he would use to kill her.

'I didn't know that you were Tom,' she said quietly. 'Had I known that twenty-five years ago, this might have been very different.'

'Perhaps.' He stepped closer to her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at his face. She idly wondered if he'd stood so close to a living human being in many years. His followers feared him, and his enemies were always dead by the time he was this close to them.

His right arm jerked around her back, and she could feel the coldness of his skin seeping through her robes as he held her. The red eyes considered her carefully before he leaned down and kissed her. It was chilling, as if her lips were touching ice, she gasped at the contact, and at the force of all the memories it brought flooding her mind.

So stunned she did not fight him, she breathed sharply when he released her, stepping back, nearly sliding in the water. His eyes were black again, no red remained for an instant as he seemed to consider, watching her with an expression she could not read. He shut his eyes, heaved a sigh, and opened them, raising his wand. His eyes opened brilliant red, and she saw something flash- was it regret?- in his face as he took a breath.

'_Avada Kedavra_.'

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A.N: Please review and send me some ideas! Thank you!


	3. Conversion

Disclaimer: Once again, Harry Potter is not mine and I am making no money from this.

A/N: This chapter is not based in any way on the previous two, it is an independent work based on the request of Mia, who asked for a Lucius-McGonagall sexual pairing while she was his teacher. Please read and enjoy!

Conversion

"The son of Abraxas Malfoy would be a valuable asset," Voldemort said idly. His solitary listener did not reply, waiting for the rest of the statement in an easy silence, knowing that to volunteer information before the self-styled lord finished his thinking would only irritate him. "The father, unfortunately, staunchly upholds the Ministry. I suppose allowing those of impure blood at all levels of government broadens the field for his roving eye." A beat, and then, "You are in contact with the boy?"

"Of course," came the affirmative reply.

"Can you deliver him?"

"Will you have the patience to wait for him?" the shorter, slender figure responded swiftly, almost brightly, as if dangling a much desired sweet in front of a child. It spoke volumes of this follower's station that Voldemort neither lifted his wand or even his eyebrow at this borderline-impertinent behavior.

"You know me too well to ask that question," Voldemort answered. "I am made of patience. How long will it take?"

"Two or three years. The boy is in his fourth year. I can ensure that by his graduation, he will be ready to take your Mark."

The lord nodded, and his hooded follower likewise tilted their head, acknowledging the silently given command. "When you deliver him, you can ask for anything you wish. I will wait."

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"What are we waiting for?" Franklin Nott's impatient voice floated back to Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair as they stood on the stairwell, the blond absorbed in watching a female figure with a long sheet of black hair and an easy, feline grace to her footsteps, Walden staring at his friend with a mixture of amusement and pity.

"He's obsessed," he muttered to their third friend as Frank re-mounted the staircase. The thin, dark-haired seventh-year tossed a glance at the object of Lucius' yearnings, rolled his eyes, and slapped the pale boy on the back, the sound ringing against the stones.

"She's a prof. No point in going for her."

"She's a challenge," Lucius said speculatively, his grey eyes still locked on their target, "Not everyone could sleep with a professor."

"Who'd want to? Other than McGonagall, they're all old bats."

"Or men," Frank swiftly added with a faint shudder. "Can you imagine Flitwick-?"

"_And_ it's illegal," Walden reminded him, volume rising in an attempt to drown out the third member of their triad, as if stopping the voice could also erase the sudden influx of unwanted images – most of them involving Professor Dumbledore in his underwear and various positions from the Kama Sutra. Lucius flipped a long-fingered hand carelessly.

"Who would know? And I'm not talking about Professor Sprout or Slughorn or any of the others," Lucius continued, eliciting pained groans from his listeners. "I _am_talking about McGonagall. She's not like anyone else. Sleeping with her would be…different."

"Why? 'Cause you've had all the rest already?" Frank sniggered. Walden laughed with him, but Lucius ignored them both, gazing after the older witch until she had rounded the corner and vanished from view.

"And I don't suppose it bothers you that she's literally twice your age?" Walden pressed as they continued their interrupted journey down the stone stairs and towards the Great Hall for lunch.

"I read somewhere that women peak sexually at thirty-six," Lucius replied smugly. "But guys peak at eighteen, so I would say we're perfectly matched."

"Except that she's your Transfiguration teacher. And the Head of Gryffindor, which was, last I checked, our _rival_ house."

"That just makes it more interesting," Lucius answered, and Walden halted in his tracks to give his best friend a hard look. Lucius had been eyeing Minerva McGonagall for over a year, and it wasn't at all difficult to see why. Though in her mid-thirties, the unbroken waterfall of raven hair that fell to her waist was untouched by grey, her lithe, tall figure unstretched by childbirth and unmarked by age lines. And she carried herself with a grace that the young women they shared classes with lacked, teenage uncertainty still too recent for them to already have the poise and dignity of a woman grown.

Nor was Lucius her only admirer – either in Slytherin or the other Houses of Hogwarts – but today, in his mischievous tone and the brightness of his cloud-colored eyes, Walden could see that Lucius was thinking about more than quietly lusting after her. He was thinking about acting, which could only end in disaster.

"Lucius? Are you out of your mind? You can't actually go for her."

"Why not?" Lucius had indeed worked his way through every sixth and seventh year in Slytherin and Ravenclaw over the past two years, and many of the Gryffindors. He was often heard to sneer that he would never touch a Hufflepuff on principle – a condition that apparently did not extend to their teachers. Walden ground his teeth. While Lucius was accustomed to the girls of their own age group fawning over him, the other boy very much doubted a teacher would feel the same way, and though Lucius had charmed several girls that Walden and Frank had both claimed would never look at him, Walden was sure a professor was well beyond the reach of their flamboyant friend.

"She could have you expelled for approaching her," he hissed.

"Not if I do it in the right way," Lucius said cockily, and strode onward into the hall, where, for the sake of discretion, the conversation had to be over.

"He's lost his mind," Frank muttered, shooting a glance Walden. The other boy nodded his head sharply before following their friend. What on earth would possess Lucius to do this now, thoroughly endangering his academic career, only six months from their graduation?

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Minerva kept her head deliberately bent to her desk, though she could feel the heat of the gaze on the back of her neck. His glance had changed in the past two weeks, lust firing openly in the grey eyes, and she smiled to herself as she carefully marked one of the papers of her lower years, excitement fomenting in the bottom of her stomach. She had laid this path stone by stone for the past three years, knowing that at this critical age of self and sexual discovery, that which was taboo was often most desired, and she had taken great care to make herself desirable. Her considerable natural beauty was easily enhanced by robes that covered everything while clinging to the right places, by the hair she wore unbound like a maiden, by the enchantment for her eyes that made her glasses unnecessary.

Combined with the grace granted by her Animagus form and her quiet, confident skill as a witch, these traits were an undeniable allure for the young men of Hogwarts – especially those who counted themselves conquerors in all arenas containing a bed.

And the son's appetite for pleasures of the flesh was as vast as the father's, Abraxas' example of flagrant infidelity a model Minerva had relied on Lucius to follow. Halfway through his fifth year, rumors began to reach her, and even as her mouth had murmured about "moral laxness" and "the depraved state of youth" with the rest of the staff, she had felt a shaft of relief and triumph that her assumption had been correct.

For Lucius would tire of the girls who came with little or no resistance to his bed, and then turn his attentions to that which was nigh impossible to attain, seeking the challenge that all men of his kind needed. As his professor, not only tradition but law forbade him from touching her – and these facts, far from being a deterrent, merely added spice to the dish, an element of real danger to the chase.

She smirked as she dipped her quill into her inkpot again, the feeling of his eyes following her graceful movement prickling in her skin. With the right words, the right touch, the right glance, he would follow her into Hell to get what he wanted.

She intended to lead him there.

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Walden saw his friend's wand almost too late. He lunged for Lucius' right arm, knocking the wood aside before a curse could land on its third-year target. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "McGonagall is still in there!" The younger Gryffindors were emerging from their Transfiguration class, oak door still wide open, allowing their professor a clear view of the corridor.

"I know! Get off!" Lucius snapped, thrusting his friend of many years away from him angrily.

Fortunately, they moved in one huge pack, bottlenecking in the hallway like so many lemmings rushing out to sea. Lucius had been hoping to peg Sirius Black – the boy was too cheeky by half to his elders and betters – between the shoulders. Walden's interference had put the boy and his bratty companions on the other side of the crowd. But hitting Black would have merely been a bonus, and any curse he fired now would hit _someone_ in the constant stream of people.

And then…detention. With Minerva McGonagall.

He muttered the Jelly-Legs Jinx under his breath and swept his wand to widen its range, making three Gryffindor girls go wobbly, tripping over one another and their classmates. It was a matter of seconds before half the class was in some state of disarray, most of them piled on the floor and furiously blaming each other.

The commotion brought their teacher, all strict commands and no-nonsense demeanor, into the hallway, as Lucius had known it would. "Mr. Levin, Mr. Kander and Mr. Asling, get up off the ground. Miss Fairchild, Miller and Njus, what happened?"

There was some additional racket assigning fault to this or that party before a ringing voice cut from the other side of the throng.

"Malfoy did it!"

_Thank you, Black. At least you have some uses. Trust a Gryffindor to hand the blame to a __convenient Slytherin any day._

Her gaze turned down the hall for the first time to take in Lucius, lounging some ten yards distant. Walden and Frank had made themselves scarce when McGonagall had appeared, and the cool Slytherin stood on his own, pose deliberately casual as he leaned with one shoulder against the hard granite.

As her dark eyes locked on his, Lucius was startled to see something like mirth ignite there for an instant, and her eyes rake over him, a smirk twitching at one corner of her lips.

And then the moment was over, and the stern taskmistress she had always been was striding towards him. As he stood up indolently, he noted with delight that tall as she was, he was a good six inches taller, and could easily look down at her.

She stopped close to him, so near that when she glanced up, it was through her lashes, and Lucius suddenly had a difficult time breathing. Her tone was not coy, her words were threatening, but that look…

"Mister Malfoy, I asked you a question!" she snapped.

"Er…what?" he wrenched himself back to the situation.

"Why did you find it necessary to hex three students right in front of my door?"

There was no right answer to this question, and there never had been. He resorted to his usual reply and shrugged carelessly, omitting words.

"Is that _all_ you have to say for yourself?" The 'all' was almost drawled, and he peered at her closely, wondering what she was daring him to answer.

"Yes, ma'am." He tacked on the title of respect to see her reaction, but it garnered none.

"Well, Mister Cool, since your sense of humor seems to be distinctly lacking in the maturity you should have at your age, I think a detention is in order."

_Success!_

"Mr. Filch will expect you at eight tonight. Don't be late." She stepped back from him, and in the instant before she turned on her heel, he saw vivid amusement sparkling in her face, telling a different story than exasperated teacher and erring student.

She knew what he wanted, and was deliberately denying him. Lucius controlled the uncharacteristically broad grin that threatened to distort his mouth.

He might have detention with Filch, but she had engaged in the game.

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"Mister Malfoy, when I ask for three rolls of parchment, two and a line does not make a completed assignment. Ten points from Slytherin," she snapped at the end of their next class as he handed her his homework. He held his breath. She took her subject seriously, but enough so to detain him, or just remove points?

"Professor Sprout has some re-potting to do in Greenhouse Five this evening. You can join her there after dinner. Wear work clothes." Lucius blanched. He hated the physical labor of Herbology – it had been one of the major factors determining that he would not be taking the class after passing his OWL with an 'E'.

She glanced up at him again, and he saw genuine annoyance tainting the dark eyes now. Her next words were so quiet that if he'd sighed he would have missed them. "Don't try to get what you want by neglecting your class work, Malfoy."

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"He's actually, one-hundred-percent, gone-round-the-twist obsessed," Frank remarked to Walden one evening as they sat in the common room, playing chess and waiting for Lucius to return from yet another detention, this one being served with Kettleburn and one of his breeds of magical creatures. Working with animals was Lucius' seventh level of Hell, preceded only by dealing with flora and scrubbing floors.

Walden grunted vaguely, making a noise that could have been agreement, but his mind was on a conversation he'd had with Lucius just hours ago, after his friend had confided that he would be serving his third detention in the space of ten days.

"_Don't you think she just finds you irritating?" Walden asked as they wound their way down to their dungeon House. "I mean, Lucius, I think __it's obvious you should shelve it. She's out-of-bounds, and she knows that. Why don't you?"_

"_Because she's not," Lucius countered with the cheerfulness that had baffled his friend over the past week and a half. Even now, set to serve another three-hour slot doing something he hated, Lucius was more…alive…than he had been for months, energy practically radiating from the boy who had been so flat and completely bored with life at the beginning of the term.._

"_How in the name of Merlin can you say that?" Walden cried in bewilderment. "She's done nothing but make it crystal clear that she wants nothing to do with you. Hasn't she always given you detentions with other teachers?"_

"_Yes," Lucius replied smugly. "And she has chosen their order very carefully, starting with what I least like to do. To know my habits takes study and attention, Walden. The kind of attention you don't pay to someone whom you have no interest in."_

"_You dropped Herbology as soon as you could and never even attempted Care of Magical Creatures," Walden answered, shaking his head. "It doesn't take a genius or even very much attention to remember that and assign punishment accordingly."_

"_She's interested, trust me," Lucius had responded with confident buoyancy. After which, Walden had surrendered his ambitions of curing his best friend of this fit of madness. Lucius would try something stupid, McGonagall would get angry, his father's money would save Lucius expulsion and scandal, and life would continue as it always had._

But his thinking had taken an abrupt twist as they had sat down to dinner right after their argument, and he had looked up the hall to see a speculative look that wasn't quite a smile passing over their Transfiguration professor's face. He had followed her dark eyes to settle on the finely-shaped profile of the Malfoy Heir.

Protectiveness surged underneath shock as Walden's gaze had flickered back towards their teacher to see an expression he had never imagined gracing her features – a look of ruthless determination, dark eyes hard and predatory.

It was clear that Lucius had caught her interest. Walden was not at all sure that it was the kind of attention his friend wanted.

But Lucius was blind to all except the prize that he saw held out before him, and Walden could not now persuade him to change his mind.

888

"Professor, could you show me that wand movement one more time? I don't think I have it quite right," Lucius asked, standing in front of her desk as the rest of his classmates filed out. Minerva took a moment before lifting her dark head from her paperwork. Lucius had been actively trying to force her hand for almost three weeks, and after a string of detentions served with any teacher but her, he was getting more subtle. His current approach had all the grace of a dropped brick, but at least it was no longer a ton of them.

Minerva deliberately waited until she heard the last footstep echoing from the stone as her students left them alone, Lucius still standing patiently in front of her. He was persistent, she had to give him credit for that.

"Show me," she commanded finally, rising, the persona of his teacher still completely impenetrable. She saw disappointment flare in the grey and contained a snort. Lucius was, after all, accustomed to courting women who came to his bed after one or two encounters. She had built herself to be his unattainable desire, knowing that his need to taste victory would spur him to action – and condition him to obedience.

He flicked his wand and murmured the incantation. Minerva arched an eyebrow at him. He would have it perfect, had he not purposefully added the extra hook at the end of the short motion.

"No hook. Just sweep your wand," she corrected him. He repeated at her nod, hook still present, pillow still unable to sprout the feathers it was supposed to have. Their eyes locked as he looked to her for her reaction, and she to him for his reasoning. For a moment, neither moved, suspended in space as they weighed one another, and Minerva arrived at her first decision.

He had waited long enough.

She swept around her desk, and gently touched the back of his smooth hand with her fingertips, feeling his pulse jump suddenly, his breathing betraying the erratic gallop of his heartbeat.

"Again," she ordered, and he jerkily moved the wand in the correct motion, her light touch stopping the addition he had made specifically to catch her notice. She withdrew her hand with a brief, challenging smile.

"I think you understand it now, Mister Malfoy. Practice it for next class."

888

James Potter came flying down the staircase, books in hand, late once again for his first class: Charms. Skittering around a corner, he ran slap-bang into McGonagall. The older witch was knocked off balance and her armful of books scattered to land on the floor, each with a loud _bang!_ like small bombs going off. Reeling backwards, she found herself supported by someone bearing a spicy, undeniably male scent, and firm, muscular chest. The long hair falling over her shoulders, white-blond striking against the shining black locks of her own strands, betrayed the identity of her helper, and she twisted her head to look into the face of one Lucius Malfoy.

But he was already setting her right on her feet, and her abrupt recognition of his adult masculinity went unnoticed as he smoothly turned to Potter and began lecturing. The younger boy glared at him resentfully, but did not dare talk back with McGonagall standing right in front of them.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for carelessness and tardiness," she snapped as Lucius finished his smug tirade.

"Yes, Professor. Can I go?" Potter begged, his feet already backpedaling towards Flitwick's classroom, where there would surely be a further deduction of points. The little half-goblin professor was kind, but strict, and expected his students to respect him and their classmates by not wasting their time.

"Hurry!" Minerva snapped.

She waved her wand and the books flew back into them, and Lucius added the two he'd picked up to the top of the pile.

They were standing so close together that Lucius could speak quietly, and he pressed one long-fingered hand to her arm as he whispered, "Are you all right? Potter hit you with some force."

"Nothing a quick draught of Bruise-Away won't fix," she answered swiftly, and stepped away from him. Two or three hundred years ago, male teachers had often taken at least one bride from amongst their students, but starting with Armando Dippett early in the century, that practice had been frowned upon, and if someone were to see Lucius touch her here, it would undo what she was trying to accomplish.

"Five points for helping me. But I believe you also have class, Mr. Malfoy." It was not a question, and Lucius knew it. He retreated quickly, safety granted by distance.

888

Minerva smiled as she read Lucius' essay. His interest in her had increased his study of her subject, and the mind that she had not known existed beneath the polished, often spoiled, façade that the son of Abraxas adopted was beginning to flex its formidable muscles in her field. He would never be Hogwarts' best student, but he could have been one of them had he cared to try, and she found his insights and the depth of his research since she had told him off for deliberately short-shrifting an assignment refreshing.

She dipped her quill in ink and scrawled her comments across the bottom of the parchment, along with a reading list and a note. _My office hours are on Monday starting at three. I know you don't have class that afternoon._

888_  
_

"Let's go shoot some goals," Frank was standing at the end of Lucius' bed, broom in hand. Lucius waved him off, apparently absorbed in reading his textbook.

"Come on, you can do homework later," Walden joined them.

"I practiced Quidditch this morning with the team," Lucius replied, turning a page and not lifting his head. "I really need to get this done."

"What're you reading?" Walden was struck by a sudden suspicion and leaned over his friend, checking for the title at the top of the page. "_Modern Animal Transfiguration Technique?_" he breathed in disbelief. "Lucius-"

"Go play outside, Walden. I don't see what business it is of yours what I'm reading."

Frank and Walden locked eyes over their oblivious friend. Yes, Lucius had been spending more time in the library to write his essays for McGonagall, but they had never seen him lift a book not required for class and this was advanced learning – definitely not on their lists.

Shaking their heads, the duo tromped out, leaving an absorbed Lucius in their wake.

888

"What did you think?" she asked as she waved him into a large, suede-covered chair, busying herself over a teapot and biscuits.

Lucius had been intrigued to discover that the outer office was only part of the whole. Her professional space was every inch a teacher's domain, set to intimidate the erring or offer comfort to those in need. Minerva had taken him straight through this area, removing a leather-bound volume to make one of the bookcases swing aside to admit them to this much more personal space. The thick carpet under his feet and mahogany coffee table spoke of an inclination towards luxury and he smiled. This room betrayed the lie of her rigidly controlled persona. Minerva McGonagall was no more a Spartan than Dumbledore, with his flashy purple robes and spangled hats and boots, was a vampire.

"Interesting. Linguini has some good theories, but I thought his hogwash about mixing in Muggle String Theory with transfiguration of extremely large or small masses was ridiculous."

"Ah…but Muggle String Theory is still very new, even for the Muggles," she countered, eyes sparkling. "One lump or two?"

"Without sugar. Just cream." The thickness of the falling white told him that it was indeed cream, no milk for this woman, and he smiled at her hedonism. She handed him the cup, allowing her fingers to brush his in a way that could have been accidental and sat back in her own chair.

"And he does have some interesting thoughts on what happens to said large or small mass when you transfigure it," she said, settling back in her seat and making herself just far enough away to be difficult to reach, but close enough that occasionally the smell he had come to know as her own teased him.

888

"Where're you going?" Walden asked as Lucius sprinted past them on his way out of the common room.

"Office hours with McGonagall," he replied shortly as the stone door grated closed behind them.

"Again? He went on Friday. And the week before-"

"And the week before," Frank finished, and wonder sparked in his voice. "I think he might have done it. D'you reckon they're shagging right now?"

"No. He hasn't even gotten to her office yet," Walden pointed out. But it was true that Lucius seemed perilously close to attaining his heart's desire. McGonagall occasionally stood a shade too close to his friend, and he had seen Lucius deliberately reach out to touch her sleeve and get her attention. They were small details, but knowing his friend's attraction and the strange look he had caught on McGonagall's face, they were enough.

"And they haven't slept together yet, either. He's like a dog straining at the leash, jumping to her every whim. He wouldn't be like that if she'd already given in."

888

Minerva narrowed her eyes against the stinging rain and cursed whatever god had placed himself in charge of the weather. Why did Quidditch matches invariably take place in rain, ice or sleet? Even in late March when this final match occurred, she had seen more take place in freezing cold than pleasant warmth.

The precipitation made it harder than usual to see the players – it was Ravenclaw versus Slytherin for the Cup this year – and she strained to see, eyes slotted to protect them the weather, unwilling to truly admit to herself that she was seeking a flash of white-blond, craning her neck to track the lithe body of her seventh-year not-quite-yet-lover.

Who would have thought that under his perfectly kept appearance and aloof demeanor there dwelled a real brain? Not just the pureblood savvy that was requisite for their vicious society – Minerva had been raised in such an atmosphere by a mother rabidly mindful and ferociously prideful of their family's high status – but a genuine intelligence, an ability to absorb, process and discuss academic information. The young man's predilection for finding patterns in the information they discussed was gratifying, and Minerva had found herself sincerely challenged and occasionally stymied in their conversations as they began to range from the field of Transfiguration and delve into others – specifically the Dark Arts, Potions and Charms. Real enjoyment and a sense of partnership in his company were not bonuses she had expected when she had begun laying her plan of seduction three years prior, but they were welcome perks in a game that had, somewhere along the way, become halfway serious.

And the fact that they could also sit arguing over the best Quidditch league twenty years ago (Lucius insisted that Wales had been top and that they had only lost to Norway because of a biased referee in 1954) and debate the comic books of their childhood gave her an enormous sense of ease in his presence. Most of her colleagues endured Quidditch because the students liked it, and had no interest in talking about a match after it had happened. Hooch and Kettleburn were probably the only other two true enthusiasts on the staff, and students were not friends with whom one could happily wrangle with for hours over the details. As for comic books…one of the disadvantages of being the youngest professor by nearly three decades meant that they had been taking their NEWTs when your favorite stories had been published.

She sucked in a breath as he swooped overhead, hurtling the Quaffle far down the pitch, away from his position guarding the goalposts as Keeper of the Slytherin team. The red ball soared through the hands of Richard Davies and into the waiting arms of teammate Donald Parkinson, who threw it straight through a golden hoop.

Even in the pelting rain, it was a clear goal, and the predictable cheers and boos roared, in spite of the sound-absorbing moisture. And as Lucius tilted his head in acceptance of his House's ringing approval, doing a lap around his own triad of goals, Minerva gasped, surging to her feet without her brain's permission.

One of the Ravenclaw Beaters had found a Bludger and swung it squarely in Lucius' direction, intent on revenge. Her shout of warning was swallowed by rain and the clamor still coming from the stands, and she could do nothing but watch as the black cannon-sized ball connected with the back of his head, sending his blond hair flying as he slid towards the front of his broom…came off the handle, and began to fall – limp as a rag doll in his green and silver robes.

888

Minerva peered around the ward, ensuring her privacy before she entered soundlessly. Padding gently across the tiles, patches of moonlight illuminating the hospital, she crossed to the only bed with curtains pulled around it, tossed a glance at Madam Pomfrey's darkened office at the far end, and slid behind them.

Lucius was awake, for his eyelids fluttered open when she brushed aside the sheet hung around him, and he smiled at her wanly.

"How do you feel?" she whispered, one hand extending to close around the arm lying on top of his white linen.

"I'm fine. Madam Pomfrey is quite the expert mediwitch," he replied softly, moving his hand to cover hers, savoring her warmth, the imprint of her smaller fingers and finer bones underneath his larger and rougher palm. White and delicate-seeming Lucius' skin might be, but he played Quidditch, and hours on a broomstick created calluses on and between fingers. Minerva's breath caught as he stroked the back of her hand gently, the light touch sending shivers up her arm and into her spine, like pleasant shocks of electricity.

She backed away abruptly, breaking contact, nervousness making its appearance in her for the first time since she had been a young girl, and the sudden wriggling of her stomach reminded her of how she had felt about a boy then, as well. "Good. I…sleep well, Lucius."

"What, no good-night kiss?" he asked her. The question was meant to be in jest, but it had become serious in the asking, and his grey eyes sought her dark brown, hand extending to re-capture the one she had tugged away just seconds before.

Uncertainty threatened to overcome her as her body swayed willingly forward, and Minerva sternly disciplined herself. Lucius could never have an inkling that he held an ounce of power over her, or the game would be lost. He reveled in having power, but sought to attain more. As long as she remained outside of his control, she would be what he wanted. As soon as he knew he had control, she would fall by the wayside.

"We are in the hospital wing. This place is too exposed," she whispered. Nevertheless, she leaned over him and dropped a kiss on his forehead, treasuring the warmth of his skin under her mouth. She stood briskly and pulled away her hand.

"See you in class," she told him smoothly, the emotionless quality of her voice belying the burning of her mouth where it had touched him, the ache in her fingers to curl around his hand. She withdrew swiftly, knowing that if she stayed she would lose her grip on her already-tenuous self control.

Lucius watched her go, unable to take his eyes from the door long after she had left. His memory conjured the weight and heat of her hand, the petal-soft stroke of her lips…

She had awakened his desire to learn, and he devoured their chosen subjects greedily, surprising himself with a fantastic memory. The girls that had come to his bed had been distractions, metaphorical notches on his bedpost, and even those he had dated briefly had been good for little more than a bit of gossip about teachers and other students, handholding and good shagging.

But this woman…he could talk to her. For hours. About any subject. He still longed to run his hands over her bared skin, to touch every part of her body, but his impatience was tempered by enjoyment, by the blood that sang through him when he looked at her, by the smile he had to fight whenever she neared him in the classroom.

He had never felt this out of his own control before in his life, and it terrified and exhilarated him.

888

Lucius was awakened by rustling next to his bed in Slytherin's dungeon. His hand went beneath his spare pillow, where he kept his wand, only to find that hand trapped by another as they lunged, their body laying partially across him.

It was her. Nostrils long since keyed to her scent, Lucius had no doubts that it was his professor. He felt his heartbeat soar, she hadn't been so close to him in the two weeks since he'd been released from the hospital, and his blood heated. He relaxed the fingers fighting for their freedom, and instead shifted his shoulders, preparing to roll her onto the bed next to him.

"Not now," she breathed, and he felt lips brush against his mouth lightly. By the time his brain had caught up with events enough to react, she had withdrawn and was standing upright again. "Hurry."

"Where are we going?"

"Hogsmeade."

Lucius blinked at this unexpected reply, pulled out his wand and muttered,_"Lumos_." The light falling on Minerva made it difficult to breathe. She was dressed in robes of pale silver, her over-cloak white and threaded with shimmering patterns. Her black hair spilling over her attire gave her the regal air and look of a queen, and Lucius experienced a moment of fervent thanks that this vision of perfection would even glance his direction.

He quickly seized his robes, dressing hastily as she turned her back, throwing on his green winter cloak. It might be halfway through April, but the snows had stayed late this year and the ground was still thick with ice. He pulled on gloves, scarf and hat, and even as he pushed his last finger into place, she seized his hand and started out of his dormitory, making his first strides jerky and uncoordinated.

Down the staircase, through the deserted common room – Lucius chanced a glance at the clock, silver gleaming sullenly in the glow emitted by the dying fire and saw that it was nearly three a.m. He silently thanked the gods that it was a Saturday, as sleep no longer seemed to be part of the night's plan.

She did not relinquish his hand as they hurried through the darkened corridors, cutting across the many narrow shortcuts that riddled the castle to get to the entrance hall and out the side door that Kettleburn always used to get to the grounds. As he was led through passage after passage in pitch blackness, Lucius focused on the smell of her perfume, the pressure of her fingers, on the heat he could feel pooling between their palms – even encased in their gloves.

And then they were standing on open snow, scampering across the lawn like two children running away from their parents, the wind ripping across their faces and sending their clothes flying out behind them. Their arms extended, hands still intertwined as they ran, Lucius glanced at her to see Minerva laughing freely as they reached the huge iron gates, excitement brightening her eyes. His heart squeezed as the wind streamed through her hair, whipping it around her head to get up her nose and in her mouth.

When they were through the gate, out of the sight of the castle and on the road to Hogsmeade, they slowed down, and he chanced a question. "What are we going to do?"

She grinned at him mischievously, strict teacher forsaken, the woman emerging from the shell of professor. "You'll see when we get there."

Both of his eyebrows rose. "Sneaking students out to Hogsmeade in the middle of the night? Who knew that Minerva McGonagall, staunch follower of Albus Dumbledore and upholder of Authority would be such a rule breaker?" He was teasing her, but at the mention of Dumbledore, something hard flashed in her face. He looked at her quizzically, but her features had smoothed into their placid cast and part of him was already convinced he had imagined it.

"Hmmm, yes," she recovered adroitly. "Only for _some_ students." The smile curving her mouth was both coy and inviting at the same time, and Lucius forgot to worry about Dumbledore as he tugged at the hand he was holding, pulling her off balance and into his arms, their breath close enough to mingle as it condensed in the frosty air.

Months of wanting piled with a year of waiting to make their first kiss an explosion of desperation. Heedless of the cold air creeping through his clothes, Lucius buried his hands in her hair, holding her to him as he gained entry to her mouth with his tongue, a thrill racing up his back as she returned his kiss, passion rising to meet passion underneath the frost-gilded canopy.

Adrenaline surged through Minerva as her hands found the planes of his face, drifted over his neck and wrapped around him. She had thought herself prepared and appropriately detached for this necessary step, only to find it consuming her – no longer the calculating fisher, but one of the prey, trapped in a net of her own devising. She sought to undo the top row of buttons on his outer cloak while keeping her mouth accessible, fighting to get closer to him, needing to feel the muscled frame that she knew was at the heart of the woolen bulk.

"Don't you think we ought to be doing this somewhere a little warmer?" he whispered in her ear when he had disengaged for need of air. The puff of his breath sent a chill of pleasure straight down her spine, and Minerva almost turned around to take them straight back to the castle.

But that was not her objective tonight. She withdrew slightly and closed her eyes, willing her aroused body to calm, to release the sensations he had immediately stirred and the wanting that was eating her alive.

When she knew she had control of at least her voice, she opened her eyes again. "Later," she told him, smiling mysteriously. She resumed possession of his hand and continued leading him towards the village in silence.

They skirted the town and instead came to a small lake on its outskirts. Even into spring, the surface gleamed with the thick, dense light of heavy ice. A whispered Transfiguration spell made Lucius feel slightly unsteady on his feet, like the soles of his shoes had become long and thin.

"Catch me if you can!" Minerva dared, pushing away from him and out onto the lake…skating. And without needing to look down, Lucius knew that he also had the sharp blades on the bottom of his feet, and he fearlessly followed her, legs pumping in long strokes to capture her, spinning her around and tightening his stance to spin faster as he brought her close to him.

"How did you know I ice skate?" he murmured as they came to a halt.

"As your teacher, I have made it my personal duty to know everything about you, Lucius Malfoy," she said, her voice mock stern. She planted both hands on his chest and shoved off again, sending them both backwards until she deftly turned her body around and continued gliding smoothly over the ice.

This time, Lucius waited before following, shifting his wait from one skate to the other to keep himself upright, watching her greedily. Her natural grace transferred well to the frozen world, and her robes sparkled like the snow banks surrounding them, making her look as if she had been molded from them and given the breath of life. He felt that he could spend the rest of his life simply observing her movement, the curve of her body against the air, the stride of her legs over the ice.

Snow began to fall, thick flakes landing in her hair and studding the midnight black with pure white stars. Lucius felt happiness fill him and spill over, and he felt his heart might burst with the effort of containing uncontaminated joy. He chased her until they were both breathless from the effort of laughing and moving at the same time, at which point he wrapped his arms around her and their legs moved in unison across the lake, their bodies folded together against wind.

Minerva relaxed into him, resting on his hip as he lifted her from the ice, inscribing a large circle around the pond, supporting the weight of both of them.

"I love you," he breathed in her ear, pressing his mouth to the back of her neck as he settled her gently back to the hard surface. Minerva twisted her head to gaze at him and saw the truth in his grey eyes.

And her mouth answered the emotion radiating from him, saying the words she had never thought would cross her lips again. "I love you, too."

The snow continued to fall over them as they slowly skated over the pond, each only aware of the other, ignoring the rest of the night as it moved towards dawn, the sky gradually lightening to a dull grey under the clouds still spitting flecks of white. When they stepped back into snow and her wand made boots of their skates once more, Lucius extended one long arm, tucking her next to him as they crept happily back towards the sleeping castle.

Though he had been awake all night, Lucius felt none of the exhaustion he would have expected, only the heady rush of pleasure threaded with adrenaline as she allowed him to kiss her once more before they passed through the gates and parted. He knew the grin on his face was an expression he had never before worn, but couldn't quite care that it was hardly befitting the dignity he always wrapped around himself.

Lucius Malfoy was eighteen years old and in love for the first time.

888

As his quill hit the desk, completing his last NEWT, Lucius rose and stretched. His twice-weekly office hours with Minerva had better prepared him for his Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests better than the thick books published precisely for that purpose – guaranteed to help you beat the best scores over the last century, all for the very agreeable sum of fifteen Galleons. After delving into most of the subjects with his Transfiguration professor, the young man had found the rigorous exams easier than his OWLs.

Even now, his mouth softened as he thought of her and he stiffly repressed the smile that threatened to betray his line of thought. There was a week left of school to relax and enjoy the warm weather, and immediately following his graduation, he would be free to carry Minerva off to the Wiltshire Manor to meet his parents. He had no doubt as to gaining their approval – she was a witch from a pure line, beautiful and intelligent, and the young man who had sneered at the thought of marriage less than six months before was now mentally reviewing the London jewelers of high enough quality to fashion her engagement ring.

He strode from the hall, wrapped so deeply in thoughts of silver and gold, rubies and emeralds, that he didn't notice either Walden or Frank lift their heads or exchange worried glances. Lucius' preoccupation had been obvious for the past two months, and the blond's lifelong friends were worried that the traditional game of aristocratic men had turned into that which always spelled destruction: love. Walden had glanced at Lucius' bedside table and glimpsed lists of expensive robe makers, caterers and flower specialists from the best that London's wizarding society had to offer and concern had sharpened to intense alarm.

These were not the people one contacted for wooing, they were the creators of weddings. Expensive, high-class, pureblood weddings.

But Lucius remained deaf as ever to that which did not suit his purpose, and Walden couldn't persuade him to listen.

888

Lucius fidgeted nervously as he waited to see the object of his desires coming through the trees. He had graduated that morning, shaken Dumbledore and the rest of his professors – including her – firmly by the hand, and gone with the rest of his classmates to pack his trunks for the Hogwarts Express.

But she had pressed a crumpled piece of parchment into his fingers as they met in front of the whole school, and he had unfolded it to find the following missive: _Don't leave on the Hogwarts Express. Meet me in the Forbidden Forest behind the gamekeeper's cottage at 7:00 p.m._

And here he was, five minutes early, and waiting, nervousness mounting. Outside of her office hours, in which she had insisted they mostly talk instead of snog, he had seen little of her ever since their evening in Hogsmeade. He had been worried that she might expect their flirtation to be over now that he was graduating, but surely she would not have bid him stay if she wanted it to be over…

There! Weaving through trunks slathered in summer moss came a figure-

-it was Minerva, and Lucius' eyes widened in surprise. She was wearing a robe of thick, tomb-dark black that gave her an eerie, deadly air. The color was completely unlike the varying shades of red she usually wore while teaching, and the jewel-tones that fitted her frame on weekends. The black eyes fastened on him looked slightly feral in the gleaming golden light of late evening, and Lucius wondered if it was so, or a trick of his mind born of her unsettling attire.

"Minerva?" he said hesitantly.

She smiled at him, and though it was genuine, its radiance was tarnished by – was that fear? – and Lucius stepped towards her, forcibly overcoming his gut instinct not to touch her midnight robes to thread his arms around her waist and pull her to him.

"What is it?" he asked her.

"We're going to meet someone," she told him, and though her voice was steady, Lucius could hear trepidation and tightened his hold.

"Who? What's wrong?"

Minerva felt her heart squeeze at his sincere worry, and swallowed, hard. She was not supposed to love him. This was not supposed to hurt.

But she had grown to know him in the past six months better than she had ever dreamed she would, and she knew from the jolting in her chest and the dreams and the way her eyes followed him irresistibly whenever he entered her line of sight that she did indeed love him. And for one, wild instant, she contemplated breaking her oath to her lord.

But Voldemort had promised her anything she wanted when Lucius was delivered…

Making her decision, she stepped out of his arms and rolled up her left sleeve. She had never bared her arms in the vicinity of Hogwarts since taking the Mark. Glamours covered it well most of the time, but if the magic failed, it would be a fatal mistake. Murmuring the spell that counteracted the cover enchantment, she watched her seemingly-smooth skin ripple, shimmer and change.

Lucius stared as the lividly red Dark Mark appeared on Minerva's wrist, appearing to erupt from her flesh on command. He knew this sign, knew his father railed against it and the man who had created it. He had heard rumors of torture and murder, of racism, eugenics and radical ideals. That this woman who could debate the use of Potions in animal transfiguration while beating him at wizard's chess, who had read _The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle_ and who cozily argued about Quidditch in her sitting room also bore this mark literally rocked his world, and Lucius felt abruptly lost, a small boat jerked free of its tether to fight towering waves.

Minerva watched the storm of emotion cross his face, praying that her honesty had not cost her both his love and her lord's pleasure, for between them, they composed the two most important things in her world.

"You want me to meet him," Lucius finally said, his voice low and stressed.

"Yes. He has been eager to see you for some time."

"I see." The coldness in his tone told her that he was putting it all together, and he took another step away from her, putting himself out of the reach of her hands. The bitterness in his voice betrayed immense pain as he said, "So. All of this was an elaborate plan to trick me into going with you quietly."

It was not a question, and the protest against his assumption that rose to her lips was a lie that Minerva strangled. If she lied to him now, someone else would tell him the truth and ruin it later. She had never deliberately told him an untruth, and no matter what it cost her, she found she could not start now. If she returned to Voldemort empty-handed, then so be it.

She thought she could almost hear her heart cracking as she breathed deeply to calm the dread writhing in her stomach. "It started out that way, yes. Now…now it is different. It is not an act, Lucius. That's why I'm telling you where I wish to take you instead of just Apparating us away, which I could have done. I have _never_ lied to you."

Lucius started to lash back in fury, and stilled his tongue just in time. He, himself, had started this flirtation with the intention merely of sleeping with her, of conquering a previously unexplored territory and moving along as soon as he had staked his claim. Did he have any right to be outraged that she, too, had come to it with an outside agenda, not seeking love?

For blazing in her dark eyes, over the robes that repelled him, were love, respect, hope and already the faint shadow of resignation, the teetering of her heart before it would fall and shatter at his refusal. His throat closed as he stared at her, overjoyed by the clear battle of emotions, the indication that she truly cared, and he willed himself to step forward and accept her offer. A few moments' pain for a tattoo, a few meetings in which he would agree with whatever was being said, and he could have her forever. But the memory of his father's enraged diatribes checked his stride. If he accepted this Mark, if he followed her, his father would never forgive him-

-and an image of his mother, cold, proud and formidably hard popped to the forefront of his mind. As a boy, he had never understood his mother's apparent hatred of his father, but as he had grown older, unwanted comprehension had been granted to him unexpectedly. He had seen his parents laughing together in their drawing room, a moment at ease where they seemed to fit like two perfectly matched puzzle pieces. A week later, his father's new secretary at the Ministry had caught Abraxas' ever-hungry and appreciative eye, and Lucius had watched his mother close away again as his father did not come home for many nights in a row, her laughter erased, joy locked behind a curtain of pain.

His mother loved his father. Still. After years of watching women take her place at his side in the bedroom, she continued the cherish the prayer that Abraxas would change. And so her heart broke every time another witch received that which should have been hers by right of oath.

Disgust for the older wizard's utter carelessness overpowered his fear of his father's wrath, and Lucius reached out to seize Minerva's hand. He had no reason to follow Abraxas, especially if the choice were between his father and this woman Lucius had held and kissed and fashioned dreams around.

"I am ready," he said gently. And the smile she gave him was one of relief, disbelief and joy as she squeezed his hand.

"Let's go," she replied. And, because she knew how to tamper with the school wards to allow herself to Disapparate from where they stood, a muttered word and a _crack!_ later, the trees rolled the echo of their departure into the empty evening air.

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"My lord," Minerva bowed, and, a few paces behind her, Lucius did the same, straightening when she did. "I have brought you Lucius Malfoy."

Voldemort's gaze was already fastened on the young man and he smiled. "I can see that. He looks very like his father." At the mention of Abraxas, the young man stiffened slightly, and Minerva reached to him, tangling her hand with his in a silent gesture of support and understanding. Lucius flashed her a grateful smile as he moved forward to stand even with her, the pair a study in light and shadow before the Dark Wizard.

Voldemort noted the clasped fingers, the tentative, secretive smiles that told a story of true relationship, and frowned fleetingly. A real attachment would ill serve him and his plans. What had Minerva done to get the boy here?

"Leave us," he ordered the wizards near the door before turning his gaze to the woman in front of him. "And you, Minerva. Young Lucius and I have matters to discuss alone."

Minerva tilted her head in acknowledgement, but felt Lucius' hand clench around her fingers in sudden apprehension. She returned the pressure and gave him a sidelong glance. It said, _Don't be afraid._

"I will not go far," she promised him in a whisper, and as he released her fingers, she backed out of the room.

She did not know as she closed the door that she would never touch him again.

When Voldemort emerged from his room of state – the only furnished room in the entirety of the dilapidated Riddle House – he came alone, and Minerva, who had waited patiently through the long hour and a half, surged to her feet, looking for the long, lithe body that should have accompanied him.

"My lord, where is Lucius?" she asked, tongue darting out to wet suddenly-dry lips. Had Lucius refused the Mark after all? Would she enter the room to find his bloodied body? She had not heard the many sounds that are wed to torture, but there were plenty of Silencing Spells to ensure that.

Voldemort gazed down at her with an expression somewhat like compassion – or as close as he could approximate on his blurring features. "He has returned home at my bidding." Minerva's body twisted, ready to carry her out of the old estate to where she could Apparate when Voldemort's orders stopped her. "You will not follow him, Minerva."

Her head snapped back around. "Why not? Is there another task my lord wishes of me?" she asked quietly.

"Yes. Stay away from him," Voldemort ordered gently.

"What? Why?" she hissed angrily, encouraging the sudden torrent of fury to prevent the abrupt, sickening feeling of loss from settling in her stomach and consuming her.

"Lucius told me how you convinced him to come here, told me that he planned to ask for your hand in the next six months." Voldemort sighed heavily. "But Lucius Malfoy is a powerful bargaining piece, his family line being as impeccable and powerful as it is. Some years ago I struck a bargain with the Black brothers – Aries and Orion – and I have their assurance that they will throw the financial weight of their family behind me if Lucius weds Orion's daughter, Narcissa."

Minerva felt her world slipping away from her, as if she were desperately trying to climb a sand dune, only to find her sinking and carrying her farther downhill. Voldemort had not told her that there was another, ulterior motive for the conversion of Lucius Malfoy to their way of thinking.

"You promised my anything I wanted," she whispered hoarsely, playing her last card. "I want Lucius."

"Chose another prize, Minerva," the tall wizard commanded. "We need the money that the Blacks can provide. Lucius is not for you. He never was."

And the conversation was over, Voldemort sweeping down the hallway as a pain brought about by her own desires forced Minerva to her knees in the dust, hair screening her face as she choked on her tears in a puddle of black.

888

_Nineteen Years Later…_

"Excuse me, I need to see the Headmaster. Do you know where he is?" The smooth voice behind her had not changed in two decades, and Minerva felt her heart burn, taking her breath away as she slowly turned around, feeling that she would never be ready to see this face again.

Lucius stifled his immediate reaction to gasp as the professor he had addressed met his grey eyes. Minerva McGonagall's hair was still pitch-black, but it was bound tightly in a bun on the top of her head and the lines carving her eyes and mouth told of her aging, effects enhanced by worry and sorrow. Glasses guarded the once-brilliant eyes he had thought he might spend a lifetime gazing into. Gone were the traces of the mysterious woman who had enraptured him. The toll taken by the re-opened Chamber of Secrets was clear on her features, and Lucius momentarily forgot his true reason for coming – the removal of Dumbledore as Headmaster – as he gazed at her for the first time since she had brought him to serve their lord.

"He has gone to visit Hagrid. I believe you recall where the gamekeeper's cottage is?" she replied steadily, her voice belying the turmoil of her emotions.

Lucius knew he had taken a beat too long to reply by the time he spoke, and knew that she had noticed, but what could she say? She would never know that he had raged and wept for months after being given his first orders as a Death Eater, that his marriage to Narcissa had been a loveless and passionless affair for the first two years as his heart bled for Minerva. They had both been betrayed by their master those many years ago and now…

Now he was contentedly married, his son was now one of her students. Voldemort had separated them as neatly and precisely as a surgical knife, and the world had spun them apart, to grow older without each other, until it had passed from the realm of reality into that of nostalgia, swathed in the mist of dreams.

"Thank you," he finally managed. "Good day to you…Professor McGonagall."

She nodded to him stiffly, the picture of perfect propriety and politeness. "Good day, Mr. Malfoy. I hope you find what you need."

As she returned to her work on a table in the staff room, Lucius hesitated an instant before letting himself out, gazing at the black hair he knew had not lost its silken sheen, the body still slender and well-shaped. Once he had burned needing her-

-he closed the door firmly as he exited, feeling as if the click of the latch sliding into place helped discipline his thoughts. That feeling had died years ago.

Beating back the tide of regret, Lucius Malfoy strode out of Hogwarts and across the lawn to finish what he come here to do.


	4. War's Bedfellows

Disclaimer: Not mine, all non-profit work, rights are fully owned by JKR, WB and others.

A/N: As per usual, this short fic is unrelated to the previous three. My dear reader Shogi requested a Lucius-Lily pairing - thank you for the prompt! Please keep in mind while reading that the first and last sections occur a month after the first fall of Lord Voldemort. I hope this meets expectations!

In regards to whether I write slash, the answer is absolutely - I have simply received no requests to that end. If someone were to request it, however, it would be my pleasure to write. Please read and enjoy!

War's Bedfellows

Azkaban.

The high, forbidding walls of the island fortress rose in front of them, the dense mist of breeding Dementors surrounding the sharp cliffs, wrapping the world brought forth from nightmares in an unnatural cold.

Lucius Malfoy shivered as the chill soaked through his heaviest cloak, the silk underneath it, and into his bones. One could not arrive at Azkaban via Apparition, Portkey or flight. The only way in and out was by boat – a route through the freezing, shape-shifting fog sure to impress on the visitor how deeply they never wished to commit even the slightest crime.

The damning effect of the Dementors soaked the stone as surely as the sea spray, and Lucius struggled to summon pleasing thoughts to keep his internal demons at bay. There were many now, born of the struggle over the past decade, howling lustily to ensnare him in his own darkness as the rickety wooden craft drew ever-closer to the jagged base of the prison.

It didn't help that his errand would have been difficult to complete without the Dementors present to prey upon his worst fears. He focused on his beautiful wife, his healthy son, longing for the relative security of the bay in the lagoon underneath the rock...

"Visiting whom?" a dry, bored voice asked, and Lucius shook himself out of his half-trance, Evan Rosier's dying scream fading his head. They had arrived. The soul-eating ravages of the Dementors were dampened down here, where the human guards lived and worked. One could not afford jailers as mad as the jailed.

"Sirius Black," reported the small man who had rowed them across the channel. The stringy wizard seated behind the desk gave Lucius a long look, thin face twisted with disgust as he recognized the aristocrat who had occupied the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ for over a month, his trial and subsequent acquittal having provided a field day for the press. He leaned over his water-warped workspace and spat on the ground at Lucius' feet.

"Consoling your old comrade, eh? I know the Wizengamot let you plead the Imperius Curse, Mr. Malfoy, but I saw the Prewett brothers' bodies." His light blue eyes glittered like ice in the torchlight, and Lucius shivered. He had never been a coward, but he had always possessed an unerring instinct for those who truly wished him harm.

This man would kill him without hesitation and without conscience.

"The bastard who did that _enjoyed_ it."

Lucius remembered too well the day the other man referred to. He _had_ enjoyed it. They had been a threat, and they had fought brutally, granting no quarter and receiving none in return. He had watched his protege Timothy Wilkes die in agony, an Entrail-Expelling Hex from one of the two brothers splattering his insides on their sitting room walls. The taste of revenge meted out on their bodies had been sweet enough to linger in his mouth for weeks.

The younger guard who had stepped up to guide the Death Eater into the bowels of the pit coughed in embarrassment, breaking their deadlock. "Erm, sir, be that as it may, we do have our orders..."

"Right." With reluctance, the man turned away, jerking his head at his colleague. "Richardson here'll take you." He turned to his inferior. "If he tries anything, shove him into a cell. The court can work it out later."

The man murmured an uncomfortable, "Yes, sir," before gesturing for Lucius to follow him.

_Ah, the mercy and temperance of wizarding justice_, Lucius thought as the young man led him down the hallway, his face apologetic for the actions of his supervisor. No wonder he had joined Voldemort.

For all his high security, Black was swiftly located, swathed in Dementors who resentfully moved aside at the guard's order. Lucius found himself staring into a haunted face – one that still retained the shape and finely-sculptured features of his wife's ancient line, but whose eyes told the story that flesh would soon echo: despair.

His supposed ally, locked up a month prior when the Potter's house in Godric's Hollow had been blasted into ruins. Not that he had ever met the man in the confines of the brotherhood, but that mattered little. The Dark Lord had been nothing if not secretive. And now it would save Lucius the necessity of pretending to like the vain bully he recalled from Hogwarts.

But it was not of their mistaken allegiance that he had come to speak. This meeting was over a separate matter, a different set of promises they had both made to another family.

"Where is the boy, Black?" he asked quietly.

Black's head jerked, swinging strands of already-filthy hair from his eyes. He stared at Lucius, then laughed, the sound halfway between a sneer and a pained yelp bouncing off the stones. "As if I would tell you, Malfoy. Anyone sane – and mind you, there don't seem to be a lot of them – knows that you were the power backing Voldemort's throne."

Both Lucius and the guard winced at Black's casual use of the name. "Rumor has it that you claimed that seat for yourself," the blond parried swiftly. The other man's eyes shuttered, enormous sadness slamming home in the formerly carefree obsidian orbs. Lucius blinked. Either Black was giving a performance worthy of a standing ovation or Magical Law Enforcement had gotten the wrong man.

Interesting. Irrelevant.

"Where did you take him from Godric's Hollow?"

"I didn't," Black answered. "Read the _Prophet_, Malfoy. Everyone knows that my traitorous friend and I duelled that same evening, when would I have had time? Go back to your manor, and continue to donate Galleons by the ton to your 'excellent causes' or whatever else buys you the indulgence of the Ministry and the blind eyes of the Aurors. I don't know what happened to Harry-" his voice cracked on the name of his godson and Lucius knew, then, that regardless of the proof, the man before him was innocent of the Potter's deaths – "and believe me, if I did, you are _not_ amongst those I would tell."

He turned his back on the bars and shuffled to the back of his cell, away from the paltry light that penetrated into the heart of the bastion, wrapping himself in shadow.

The prisoner of Azkaban did not speak again.

_I have failed her_, Lucius thought grimly as he emerged from the isle of permanent decay and back into the spring afternoon – he had forgotten, in the space of a few hours, how glorious the sun felt on one's skin.

_You hardly loved her. And the boy will be under the protection of the old man, provided and cared for. He must be. The hero of the wizarding world cannot simply disappear._

But little Harry Potter, younger by a few months than his own Draco, _had_ completely vanished. The same night that wizards around the country had whispered his name as savior or cursed the death of the Dark Order.

And although he had not loved her, nor she him, he had promised. Sworn to Lily Potter in the darksome night of their mutual desperation. Vowed to keep the boy should it be necessary.

James and Lily Potter were dead. Their best friend and the boy's godfather sat locked in Azkaban, wrongly convicted, but never to be released. It was necessary.

And he could not keep his word.

888

_Nine Months Before the Fall of Voldemort..._

Lily Potter's wand was pointed directly at his heart, her six-month-old son floating behind her in a modified bubble-shield spell, levitating him off the ground and simultaneously deflecting all manner of flying objects, magical and mundane.

The child was...uncanny, Lucius had to admit. Instead of taking up wailing like the rest of the babies nearby, his eyes – already bearing her startling shade of green – were wide and focused on the masked and robed figure that inspired abject terror in adults.

There was no fear. A healthy dose of curiosity, to be sure, but the boy was not afraid. And Lucius hesitated. Black hair, green eyes, chubby cheeks, the child did not remotely resemble his son. And yet...he was Draco's age, and as the image of Narcissa defending the boy from death flashed before his eyes, Lucius knew he would not be able to kill this woman.

A member of Dumbledore's rumored secret order. Adored by her husband. Her death would cause devastation, to be sure...

He cursed himself as the words would not come, as crashes and screams flooded his ears from other parts of the hospital, the sound of his fellows merrily wreaking the havoc they had been ordered to.

St. Mungo's had always been a tempting target. For inspiring terror in the masses, Lucius could think of no better place to attack than a hospital. Of course, they had to be careful – no purebloods, with the exceptions of blood traitors, and no sympathizers to their cause could be present, but having a contact in intake had certainly helped. The loyal wizard had deftly pulled and rearranged schedules to give them a window of opportunity three hours long this afternoon.

And now he stood, tongue tied in front of this ferocious mother lion, unable to summon the will for even a schoolboy's jinx to taunt her.

A swift slash of her wand, the Slicing Hex hurling towards him. He sidestepped, flicking up his own wood to counter it. Her eyes followed him warily, her instinctive crouch that of a fighter, gaze never leaving his face. His eyes would betray his intention before any spell would. Someone had trained her to fight. An expert, it seemed, and she had taken the lessons to heart.

He wouldn't be able to hurt her. He was wasting time.

"You know the fire escape?" he asked her suddenly, breaking their commandment of silence when masked. What good was covering one's face when voices were just as recognizable?

Lily's eyes widened fractionally as she nodded, and then hardened again as a gleeful whoop sounded quite close by, followed by the renewal and abrupt, horrific, cessation of a baby's cries. "Get out of here," he hissed at her. "Save your son. Use that exit, none of us are guarding it."

It was all too plain that she didn't believe him, but as the noise of carnage pressed closer, she gave him an unreadable look, snatched her son from the bubble shield and ducked out the far door, pelting for the narrow staircase that would disgorge her into Muggle London. She was a Muggle-born, and her excellence at Transfiguration would ensure that both she and her son could pass unnoticed in a matter of seconds. If she could get there unhindered, she would be safe.

"What have you been up to in here?" Rodolphus Lestrange's hand clapped him heavily on the back, looking at the pristine room, everything absurdly neat in comparison to the damage strewing the rest of the bright-white corridors.

Lucius curled his lip in disdain. "There was nothing in here. I was hoping for someone cowering under a bed – perhaps a new mother or a healer, but this place is empty."

"Pity. But come on, we still haven't hit the fourth floor long-term ward," Lestrange replied eagerly. "There should be plenty of sport there."

"Lead the way," Lucius answered smoothly, casting one more glance down the corridor where Lily had disappeared.

Foolish as it was, he hoped she and her son had survived to stand up to him and his fellows another time.

888

The Hogsmeade klaxon blared its warning of imminent attack, instantly transforming the lazy mid-spring streets.

For an instant, Lily Potter froze with the rest of the shoppers, arrested in the act of selecting ingredients at the apothecary, and then, like her fellow witches and wizards, she moved rapidly for the doors, the store proprietors pale but determined as they herded innocents through front and back entrances. She wondered if she dared attempt to hand Harry to Aberforth at the Hog's Head and join the Order...they would be clambering through his fireplace soon enough-

She halted that line of thought. She had never relished a fight, and James risked his life too often to have both of them on the front lines. Even though that line could be anywhere.

She had never told anyone about her brush with the Death Eaters in St. Mungo's two months ago when she had gone with Harry for his routine check-up. It would double James' worry and encourage Sirius to do something rash, potentially to the very one who had released her. And though she hated the self-styled lord's ideals and felt little more than contempt for those who followed him...this one had granted her life.

When she had hastily turned from casting the Shield Charm on Harry to see the death's mask leering from atop its shroud, she had been convinced that her life was forfeit. Powerful witch though she was, she knew she could not hope to escape a hospital full of Voldemort's followers.

She had resigned herself to taking the man with her when she caught the glimmer of hesitation in his eyes, the way the pale grey flickered to her son, back to her. She had recalled her duelling lessons with Filius Flitwick and dropped into a low stance, sending a Slicing Hex at him. If, perhaps, she could catch his legs, incapacitate him and run for the fire stairs...

He had blocked the hex and, in a gesture of totally unexpected mercy, he had let her go. Had suggested that very route himself and sworn his friends weren't watching it. And they hadn't been.

After two months of analyzing the situation, Lily still couldn't figure out why. She was known to be loyal to Dumbledore, her husband a pivotal figure in the resistance. Her death would have brought the man the favor of his lord, had he survived. In spite of this, he had released her from a situation in which he undeniably had the upper hand.

But he had locked eyes with Harry, and then could not bring himself to kill her. The only thing she could think of was that the man was a father himself...

"They're here – quick, Miss, the storeroom. You can't get out the doors," gasped the young man who worked behind the counter, seizing Lily's upper arm and pulling her with him and out of her memory. She cursed herself for being six kinds of a fool. She had been lucky once. No one received fate's fortune twice-

"_Avada__Kedavra__!"_ The young man in front of her dropped in a glow of hell's green light, and Lily recoiled as the death-curse brushed against her own skin, as if eager to consume more. She spun, facing the Death Eaters who had attacked them from behind.

"Merlin's Teeth, you idiot! Look before you fire – that man has been highly useful!" That voice was too familiar...no...it couldn't be-

"I thought you said no one here worked for us," came the unrecognizable first voice, offensively careless as the owner bore down on Lily. "But this one looks luscious," he purred as he neared her. "Perhaps she should be spared." His cold brown eyes flickered down to Harry. "Too bad about the brat, though, he'll have to go."

Lily's wand was up, fierce anger leaping to the defense of her baby, guiding her movements as muscle-memory and sheer rage replaced planned attacked.

The red light of a Stunner seared into the man's back before she could complete her first curse, and she could see a faint expression of surprise light his eyes as he toppled over.

Two of his comrades stood behind him, both looking thoroughly disgusted and Lily thought that Voldemort should do a better job with his masks. Eyes gave away entirely too much, even though the rest of the face remained covered.

"Are you all right?" the slightly shorter man asked, moving towards her almost awkwardly...and she placed the voice as she saw sincere concern ignite in those too-black eyes. She scrambled backwards again, running into the counter as she whispered in hoarse horror:

"Severus?"

"Damn it, man, you know you're not supposed to talk!" snapped the taller, and she knew him instantly. The Death Eater from St. Mungo's.

The man who had spared her life.

"Lily – trust me," Severus murmured, ignoring his companion.

She nearly laughed in his face. _Trust _him? Sirius had always hinted that he thought Severus had become a Death Eater, but she had never wanted to believe it...somewhere, buried underneath the neglect of his childhood, there had been a gentle soul dedicated to learning-

And here stood the product of that learning, dressed in the black that heralded death for her ilk, with a pleading look in his gaze tied to the unfathomable obsession he had with her that she had never returned nor been comfortable with.

Instead, she looked to the other, searching the pale grey eyes for some signal. One of the two had saved her from the third's unwanted attentions and Harry from the punishment of his wand. Would she be allowed to go again?

"You have an unfortunate habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time," the taller one said slowly, responding to the recognition he saw flare to life in her eyes.

"Can we get her out?" Severus pressed him.

"I thought you came for Potions ingredients. That's why our master ordered this raid."

Severus snorted in disgust, rifled through his pockets and poured out a small fortune in Galleons on the counter top, enough to pay for more than half the store's stock.

"Ever the noble one," Grey Eyes taunted easily, but there was no rancor in the words.

"I have no intention of stocking my own stores," Severus retorted, now flitting amongst the shelves and taking what he needed. "They must have money to buy more. I would have gladly walked in and done this legally and without the pomp and circumstance of this foolishness. Besides, the Order will be here soon."

"Dumbledore's unlikely army is hardly a threat," Grey Eyes discounted idly, and Lily felt a flare of indignation. Unlikely, true, but they had caused damage to Voldemort's army – it was almost painful to hear them summarily dismissed.

"Be that as it may, pitched battle is never the best option. Make yourself useful and get _her_ out before they arrive," Severus snapped, jerking his head at Lily.

"Spinner's End?"

"Merlin, no! That's no place for a child." A beat, and then, "Your Manor."

"You must be daft!" Grey Eyes sputtered.

"Your wife is out of town, which will save you unnecessary explanations, and if you were going to kill her, you'd have done it already. You know she can't get out of here with the anti-Apparition spells cloaking the place. And Draco could use the company."

"You almost done in there?" Lily could see a burst of fire through the window and Gladrags Wizardwear went up in orange flames. "We've got some lovely Mudbloods all rounded up. Come join the fun, Lucius!" a voice called from outside, drifting through the partially-open door.

_Lucius? Lucius Malfoy?_ she thought, feeling cold sink to the bottom of her stomach. Lucius Malfoy was one of Voldemort's generals, no common Death Eater, this man-

A black glove gripped her upper arm. "This is not going to be comfortable. Keep your hold on the boy," he ordered, and she barely had time to obey before they were squeezing through space in Side-Along Apparition...

...to emerge in a beautiful study lined with books and sparsely furnished, heavy green drapes obscuring the windows. Simultaneous thrills of fear and anticipation jolted through her. She had no idea where she was – probably the Manor Severus had suggested – and she felt, perhaps foolishly (but nevertheless, instinctively) that Lucius would do her no harm.

"I thought there were anti-Apparition wards?"

"There are. They are adjusted to allow those with the Dark Mark through, naturally, in case we needed support or wished to leave with prisoners."

"Is that what we are?" she asked boldly.

He laughed, removed his mask and absently pulled out the black ribbon that had tied back his too-identifiable blond locks. "Of course not. For one, Severus would kill me...and for another..." he turned back to her, but his eyes were only for her son. Almost as if enchanted, he reached up to touch the boy's skin. Harry considered him seriously as the slender fingers brushed his round cheek, as if reserving judgement on this man.

"You will not harm me because I am a mother."

He gave her a sharp glance, dropping his hand. "Make no mistake, Madam, we have killed plenty of families from all walks of life, and I have slain mothers and children alike." He swallowed bitterly and admitted, "But it has become much more distasteful after the birth of my own. I spare them, now, whenever I can."

Both disgust and sympathy welled in her at this revelation. She was revolted by the knowledge of his activities, and oddly warmed that the aristocrat's personal experience had wrought a fundamental change in him.

"May I see him?" she asked quietly. With a name like Draco, she hoped it was a boy.

A moment of hesitation, and then he shook his head. "No. It would not be wise. You should leave. This house..." he sighed. "I will lower the Apparition wards tied to my bloodline. It is safest if you go directly from this room. Much of the manor is booby-trapped against one with your blood."

She looked momentarily startled, and then embittered as she understood. "Muggle-borns," she said flatly.

"I am a prominent member of a Pureblood movement," he countered quietly. "Of course."

"What prevents me from turning you in once I go?" she asked suddenly.

"Your sense of Gryffindor honor," he replied immediately. "I have spared you and your son twice. You will not throw that in my face."

He was right. Lily abruptly hated him for it. The Death Eaters were the enemy, and they did the members of the Order a favor by hiding behind their masks. Human beings did not inhabit the midnight-colored robes and bone-white face coverings, they were demons. Better to think of them as inhuman...

...not as those with their own families, their own cares, their own deeply-held beliefs. Easier if they could not love or hate, feel joy and despair, or be capable of acts of justice, gentleness and mercy.

A flick of his wand, an unspoken shimmer of power throbbing in the room, a nod of his head. She could go.

"Do endeavor _not_ to be in the next place we raid," he told her as she steadied herself to go, and she was surprised to see a glimmer of humor there.

Out of all context with what he was and what he did, Lily returned the sentiment, surprised by the depth of feeling that went into it. "Keep yourself safe," she bid him quietly.

And Disapparated.

888

Lucius scanned the crowd desperately as the searing of his Mark faded. They had perhaps five minutes before the Death Eaters descended and the Ministry Pentecost Ball was thrown into complete disarray. Five minutes to find her. Five minutes to get his son out.

Narcissa had already vanished to don the robes and mask that would conceal her identity. Sometimes, she was nearly as fanatical as her half-crazy sister...

There! A flash of those beautiful red-gold tresses, a glance of those sparkling eyes. Lily Potter stood with a group of people Lucius couldn't name, and as he made his way over to her – just barely collected enough not to arouse suspicion – she caught his eye, and raised her eyebrows.

"Mrs. Potter," he said shortly, snatching up her hand and bowing over it in a semblance of centuries-old courtesy. "May I have the honor of this next dance?"

He could see the puzzlement in her eyes as she acquiesced and he twirled her out to the floor. He couldn't blame her. They had deliberately avoided each other at the few social functions they had attended in common, knowing that if anyone else discovered their peculiar connection, both were lost. She as a Death Eater spy, he as a Mudblood sympathizer.

"What is it?" she asked breathlessly as their feet automatically danced the steps.

"The Death Eaters are coming. Draco is here in the nursery. Take him away from here."

Lily caught her breath in horror. "_Here? Now?_ With all the children-"

"Yes here, yes now, yes with all of them present and everyone unprepared. This is the perfect opportunity for him – and you must get my son out! Take them to the kitchen in the manor."

"Them?"

"You aren't going to leave Harry behind, are you?" he snapped in reply. They had reached the far edge of the square, closest to the room where the littlest children were playing, watched over by a few very attentive house-elves. It was traditional to bring one's children to the semi-formal summer ball so that, at least once a year as they matured, they were exposed to the Ministry of Magic and a vast assemblage of their own kind.

_The perfect opportunity_. Voldemort had a distinct flare for turning the realms of concentrated innocence in the wizarding world – St. Mungo's, Hogsmeade, the Ministry – into bloodbaths. She realized bitterly that it was hardly surprising that tonight should rank amongst them.

"Don't run," Lucius murmured in her ear, allowing the closeness of the dance to cover his betrayal. "You must keep your cool. And don't come back through here – you should be able to Floo directly into the kitchen. It's Wiltshire Manor." Then he was practically pushing her off the dance floor, and Lily was moving as quickly as she could without causing a panic, wishing that watches were deemed a 'lady-like' accessory. She had no idea how long she had to get the boys and find the fireplace...

Into the nursery, a swift smile to the House-elves and she gathered up her own son, Harry burbling at her happily. He was almost a year old, and was proving to be quite loquacious. Now...Lucius's son...

Worry choked her as she realized that she'd never so much as seen a photograph, and then she spied a head of white-blond hair crawling determinedly over the carpet. When the boy raised his head, she could see eyes of a pure storm-grey. If this wasn't Lucius' boy, she'd take the Mark.

She stepped over to him and grabbed him up as well. He eyed her suspiciously, all too well aware that this was certainly not his own mother, but she was grateful that he did not strike at her or burst into tears.

She turned to face the house-elf in change and crouched suddenly. "You have a magic all your own, yes?"

The little creature blinked. "What does Miss need?" she asked in a wobbly voice.

"Seal this room with whatever power you possess. The Death Eaters are coming – they must not get their hands on these children."

"Miss..." breathed the small creature, large eyes almost popping with terror.

"They _must_ not. The Floo?" A brittle finger pointed towards the main chamber, the tiny elf unable to speak.

"Thank you." Lily spared her a half-smile and darted down the corridor until she found herself in the entrance hall, golden statues glinting eerily in the dim, after-hours light. The wizard assigned to guard duty saw her and lifted a lazy hand to wave goodnight before returning to his perusal of the _Prophet_. Lily considered him, thought of the undefended hall and the close to a thousand people in the ballroom oblivious to the danger about to descend on them. Could she warn them? Surely it was her duty...

Time was short and she owed Lucius. She had to get Draco and Harry out...

She was too late. The fireplaces began roaring green, and the black robes of their dearest enemies rapidly filled the hall. The guard wizard's paper had been ignited in his hands with the first wave and he howled as they advanced, firing curses playfully, their laughter bouncing back off marble walls to overlay and echo maddeningly.

"Going somewhere?" hissed the one who had just stepped out of the fireplace closest to her. "Shame, Mudblood, that you got caught before you could run."

Lily backed away. She couldn't reach her wand with a boy on each hip, and she had but a pinch of powder...

"Please," she begged, slowly taking steps backwards, straining her ears. "Please, I have two children..."

"I can see that. But don't worry. I'm not heartless. They won't suffer." He paused and chuckled cruelly. "Much."

Another step, and another. She had to keep begging. Had to keep talking. Just keep his attention engaged on her. The terror twisting her insides told her it wouldn't be much of an acting job.

"They're completely helpless. Please, sir, I beg of you, do what you want with me," she pitched in the formal address for good measure, could see the gloating in his narrow eyes, "but don't hurt my boys."

A flicker of orange in the corner of her vision...

"Maybe," he said smugly. "If you would agree to be a good little Mudblood whore-"

A toss of her wrist, the flames blared green and she darted for the fire. Her assailant was quick and seized her, but she was fast enough to place both boys in the flames, hoping they wouldn't inhale too much ash even as the Death Eater began to jerk her backwards, away from her salvation.

"Wiltshire Manor Kitchens," she whispered hoarsely, praying the man now twisting her arm could not hear her. Both babies began to spin and vanished. An unlikely sense of relief bubbled up within her. They were safely away. Hopefully the house-elves at the manor would retrieve them from the fire...

A blow connected with her jaw, sending her reeling backwards. "Stupid bitch," the man sneered viciously, seizing her hair and bending her neck back in preparation to backhand her again. "Saving your precious children. It's not going to do you any good." He struck her again, grabbing the wand she was fumbling for and throwing it across the hall before forcing her to her knees.

Lily felt her legs folding under her, blood flowing freely from her nose, unable to focus her vision as pain ratcheted through the bones of her face. The horror stories of what Death Eaters did to their female victims pushed themselves to the forefront of her mind, but she could not summon the strength to fight-

She felt a dead weight collapse on her back and she tumbled the rest of the way to the floor, limbs tangled awkwardly with those of her attacker. Another set of dark robes entered her vision and she struggled to right herself, to Summon her wand-

"When will you stop getting yourself into trouble?" whispered Lucius as he scooped her off the floor, glancing around as he straightened, holding her in his arms as if she weighed nothing.

"Draco?"

"Gone," she sighed against his chest. "He and Harry – to the Manor..."

Lucius _Accio_'ed her wand, and squeezing darkness enveloped her next, and then the bright, cheerful lamps of the kitchens in the Malfoy ancestral home.

Lucius glanced down at the woman he cradled. Her nose had likely been broken in the assault, and it was bleeding freely, but there seemed to be no spell damage, so she would recover with a little time and rest. He rested his hand on her nose and wandlessly healed the break, wiping the blood away with his sleeve. He looked up from where he had emerged in the middle of his kitchen, looking for his son-

-all three house-elves were rushing about two boys who looked slightly sooty, quite surprised and none the worse for wear for their near-death experience and solitary travel through the Floo network. In fact, the two started busily blowing raspberries at each other as the house-elves doted on them and attempted to clean them up.

A rush of emotion, primal and overpowering, swept over the aristocrat. The young woman in his arms had almost certainly known that she was sacrificing her life when she placed both boys in the fire and faced his colleague on her own. Once again, luck had played its part in their lives and spared her, but she could not have known, or expected, that he would arrive. He had been unsure what prompted his arrival in the hall himself – perhaps the overwhelming need to see his son safely away...

...and maybe concern for her. For her unerring knack of getting into trouble. For her rabid defense of her son that meant she would rather die than see him touched.

He had mocked Gryffindors all of his life, but her bravery and selflessness startled and touched him. She was fire where Narcissa was ice, wild where his wife was tame. She had not turned him in, in spite of her knowledge of his activities, holding true to the honor that was a trademark of her house.

And she had risked everything to save his son.

As she opened her emerald-bright eyes, registering where she was and who was holding her, Lucius lowered his head without thinking and touched her mouth with his, wondering what it was like to drink of the life force she emanated so strongly.

His mouth was warm, and tentative in spite of the hunger Lily could sense there. She slid her hand up into his fine, silky hair, pulling him in, encouraging him wordlessly to surrender to his appetite and devour her fully instead of nibbling daintily. The surprise she should have felt, the guilt, the revulsion, did not make an appearance. Right now, she was not the wife of James Potter, member of the Order of the Phoenix, and he was not the right-hand man of Voldemort. She was the woman who had brought Draco to safety and he was the man who had rescued her.

Again.

She had expected to die in the Ministry, and waking to find her nose sore but healed, in the arms of the aristocrat was a welcome change of circumstance. Adrenaline still spiked her blood, feeding a sudden flush of arousal brought on by the pliant mouth and she tugged at him wordlessly, wanting more.

He seated himself on a rough wooden table-top, shifting her to fully sit in his lap as he withdrew and brought a handkerchief from his pocket to blot away the few crimson streaks still painting her face. She captured his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm in a gesture of pure gratitude and he sought her lips again, one hand pulling her elegant curls away from her face, crushing hours worth of preparation for the ball in his fingers, splaying the other on her back to keep her from sliding off his knees.

His next kiss was scorching, sending a shiver of fire through her nerves to pool in her lower body, and Lily could feel wetness there, even as she could feel his erection growing against her thigh through his heavy robes. He suddenly rose, bringing her with him, and she could see lust disturbing the cool of his gaze, and felt her face heat in response.

He did not say anything, and, indeed, he didn't need to. This dance was as old as humanity itself – those who kissed death frenziedly sought the intimacy of life, needing the release and reassurance that the veil had not claimed them. He strode from the kitchen, still carrying her like a storybook hero, and ascended a spiral staircase, emerging in a traditionally sumptuous room dominated by a large bed. He bent to graze her neck with his lips, sending another dancing tendril of flame down her spine. When he reached her ear, he murmured, "We stop now or at the end, Lily. What do you desire?" His tongue slowly, deliberately traced the outside shell of her ear and she stifled a groan, knowing what she should say, unable to deny herself.

Instead, she arched into him, allowing her body to give her answer. He chuckled, the rich sound rumbling through her where she snuggled against his chest, and lay her on the bed.

888

"Lucius?"

Her voice sounded tired, lackluster, defeated. He rolled to face her, concern darkening his eyes as he reached for her, brushing wild locks away from her face. The faraway look in her eyes made her...old.

"Yes, Lily?"

"Promise me something?"

He stiffened next to her. Promises were slippery things. He had promised himself to the Dark Lord, only now to fear that the man would destabilize the world so badly that it would be safe for no one. He had sworn himself to Narcissa under a white canopy, and now he lay next to this woman, feeling not the tiniest bit of guilt or remorse for his tattered vow of fidelity and, in fact, grateful that his wife was out.

His delicate partner was staying with the Lestranges yet again, needing the mind-numbing fanaticism of her older sister to soothe her nerves after the assault on the village of Godric's Hollow today. Though Lily had not been present, Lucius had known that she would come to him this evening. Several of the Order members had been badly wounded, and though he had not had to rescue her since that evening at the Ministry, she never failed to arrive at the manor after a horrifying reminder of their own mortality had shoved itself under her nose.

He did not love her, and held no illusions that she loved him. In spite of his broken marriage pledge, he was fully devoted to his consummate Slytherin wife, she to her completely Gryffindor husband.

But their fascination could not be ignored, and he knew that they cared for one another in a way that could not be described as healthy, but was, undeniably, genuine. Here in the manor they transcended the masks they wore for other people. With Lily spread beneath him or riding him or even playing with Draco and her son, Lucius the aristocrat, the Death Eater, the wealthy patron and blood purist disappeared. And she was not Lily Potter, wife of a man regarded by many as a hero, a member of the opposite side, a woman who embodied everything he stood against. He was a man, she a woman, and their mutual love for their children was a bond more significant than any magical or ideological tie.

It was this Lucius who finally answered. "If I can."

Her eyes were glossed with tears as she locked them on his face. "Please..." she whispered. "Please, if anything happens to the Order, if Voldemort wins...swear you'll take care of Harry? Promise me you'll raise my son with your Draco? And give him all the love and devotion I know you have for your own?" The weight of her forlorn desperation rocked through him and he suddenly realized that he had never thought about the war ending. They had been embroiled for so long now, he since he had graduated from Hogwarts eight years ago, that it was normal. Make an offensive, retreat, enjoy the panic, strike again. It was the formula by which he lived his life.

But one day it would end. One side would stand victorious. And he realized that, with an almost childish naivete, he and Lily could not both be winners. They stood at polar opposite ends of the spectrum. Searching the empty exhaustion that had consumed her face, he knew that she expected the Dark to triumph.

The thought brought him no joy, but a renewed pit of pain. _This is not life_, he reminded himself harshly. _This is a stolen season. You cannot expect her to come to your bed for the next sixty years_.

"You have my word." And if his master lost... "As long as you swear to me in turn that Draco shall have your support, love and place in your home should _we_ lose."

"I would not have it any other way," she answered fiercely, and wrapped her arms around him, tucking her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes.

When the gentle rhythm of her breathing told him she was asleep, he slowly pulled his hands through the hair he loved so. It really was her best feature, although she was a beautiful witch in many respects.

_A stolen season_. The war was increasing in pace. He did not know if they would ever have this uninterrupted chance again.

But they had completed something this evening, and Lucius was surprised to feel lighter. If the Dark fell and he and his wife were both sentenced to prison, Draco would not suffer for their crimes. If the Light collapsed and his lover were executed, her son would be raised a loyal adherent to the Dark Lord, partaking of the special privileges granted to Lucius' illustrious line.

Either way, the boys were safe.

888

"Was Azkaban informative?" Narcissa asked as Lucius entered her sitting room. Her husband shook his head wearily.

"Black knows nothing of where our master might have gone, or if he could have survived." Truth mixed with lies. But he could hardly have told his wife of the true motive for his visit to the isle. "It did, however, impress upon me how grateful I am for our deep coffers – and Cornelius Fudge's eagerness to see his pet projects advance." He shivered and dropped a casual kiss on the top of Narcissa's head. "I shudder to think of you in there, my love."

"Indeed." She was still for a moment, and then turned her blue eyes up to his. "Perhaps it is for the best...that our master is gone, I mean." _Permanently_. The word hung in the air between them.

"Oh?" he answered politely.

"Yes," she said softly. "After all, the world is safer now, and we have Draco to consider. I will feel better knowing that his childhood will not be punctuated by the activities of the Death Eaters."

"Quite," Lucius answered abstractly, a peculiar tugging at his heart. They should have two sons. The blond pride of his heart and the bouncy, messy-haired, jade-eyed son of Lily Potter...

The Boy Who Lived. An infant celebrity. A child who had disappeared. The promise, a remembrance of her, he could not keep.

"Lucius? Is something wrong?"

He focused back on the worried gaze of his wife and stretched his mouth into a credible imitation of his arrogant smile.

"You know the Dementors, love, they always leave one drained. It's nothing."

8888888888

A/N: Thank you for reading! As usual, all ideas are welcome, please pitch some my way! It might take me a while to get inspired, but I intend to write a piece for every request I have received.

Reddy: Wow. Thank you so much for your last review. It was really touching to know that someone has been watching my writing evolve - I feel like it has come a long way with practice, but your comments were wonderful to read.

Excessivelyperky and DanniV: Thank you for reading - I seem to be into bittersweet these days! And thank you, Perky, for catching my mistake with the flora and fauna...that's what I get for not having a beta...


	5. Out of Ashes

Disclaimer: Not mine, all non-profit work, rights are fully owned by JKR, WB and others.

A/N: Once more, this is a stand-alone piece whose 'ship was requested by Violettachan – a fic with one of the Weasley brothers (who is not Ron) and Hermione. Please enjoy and, of course, review!

Out of Ashes

Ash poured down around her like hot rain, sizzling where it kissed her hastily-cast shield charm, the air shimmering, the heat still stifling in the immediate aftermath of the eruption.

_Only an ex-Death Eater would tie a curse to a volcano_, Hermione Granger thought irritably as she sank another nail into the rock above her head, a sharp tap with her tiny hammer securing it as her next handhold.

She had always assumed that watching an entire mountain blow its top off would be spectacularly impressive – red-orange lava flashing against a bright blue sky as rock tumbled in all directions. She supposed that fancy came from her parents' postcards of Hawaii, featuring magnificent geysers of flame backed by crystalline cerulean.

But up close and personal, it was merely grey. Grey smoke spitting grey ash onto grey stone.

And _hot_. Sweat had long since plastered the curls framing her face into straggly clingers running steady streams of moisture into her eyes, over her nose and down her chin. She shook her head to clear her vision, grabbed her newly-placed nail and hauled herself up one more dangerous step, feeling her palm slip on the rapidly-warming metal and cursing aloud. There was too much magic in this region to levitate herself to the top of the active volcano, use a broom or Apparate. She felt her simple protection charm flickering, wincing as tiny flecks of ash drifted through the fluctuating shield, burning her skin

_I should have known_, she reflected with some resignation as she searched the scorched rock for a place for her next grip. Her boss had been so...uncharacteristically enthusiastic...for her to take this particular assignment. _"Granger, simply no one could handle this one like you," he declared firmly. "They need someone of top class with NEWTs in __Arithmancy__ and Ancient Runes." _

Hermione could have pointed out that in order to join the Cursebreakers Division of Magical Law Enforcement, one _had_ to have NEWTs in either Arithmancy or Ancient Runes, so the fact that she had both was hardly unique, but she had allowed her damned hopefulness to interfere. Komez had always been distinctly chilly in his attitude towards her, she had yet to establish why, and she had taken his unbridled recommendation as her long-awaited signal that he was finally warming to her and her outstanding record in his department for the past six years.

_I'd say he's warmed to me. Searingly, in fact,_ she thought angrily. Why had he been so eager to see her take this assignment? The complexity of the job made it a weeks'-long endeavor to dismantle anyway. Now that she had set off the mountain, it could take months and a full team instead of her solitary efforts...and it wasn't as if she had been draped across the staff couch making Floo calls to her non-existent boyfriend before being sent to this damnable island. She had been engaged twelve hours a day in researching a particularly nasty and well-covered-over piece of inner-Ministry history – a period some three months prior to the death of Voldemort in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, when a stack of extremely valuable parchments and artefacts had gone missing, including the sword of Godric Gryffindor. An as-yet-undiscovered traitor had spirited away the information and valuables, supposedly to be given to the Dark Lord. Ginny Potter, Minister Shacklebolt's chief aide, had discovered a passing reference to the mystery several weeks ago and mentioned it to her friend. Komez had told her she was wasting her time, but the Head of Magical Law Enforcement had over-ridden him, demanding that her boss allow Hermione to set her mind to tracking down the person or persons responsible for the "disappeared" items.

_I wonder if I was getting too close to someone with that?_ When first given her orders to pack her bags and leave for the island, Harry had teased her that someone higher on the food chain wanted her inquisitive nature and sharp mind out of the way. She had laughed at the off-hand comment, pretending offense as she finished her light packing.

But she had triggered an explosion with a Stage One, noninvasive, almost undetectable, diagnostic spell of her own, private design. The magical backlash from the eruption made almost all further use of her wand or any kind of enchantment impossible. In the space of a few moments, she had been neatly snared in a precarious position, incapable of moving swiftly either to complete her job or to escape. And the shadow had been growing in her mind as she hauled herself Muggle-fashion inch by bloody inch up a mountain straight from Dante's _Inferno_ – _had_ she been getting too close to a secret that someone important wanted left buried? No one had been prosecuted for the missing items, and it was entirely possible that whoever was responsible still worked for the Ministry – and knew exactly what she had been doing.

And there was no denying that this deceptively serene mountain seemed to have been...expecting her. Her skills, her pattern of work, her signature magic. The personalized spells that were supposed to give her an edge precisely because they were secret, not endanger her because someone knew how to counter them. Expecting indeed – and ready to strike.

Hermione Granger was not given to belief in conspiracy theories. But she was beginning to see too many uncomfortable facts to write everything off to bad luck.

She bit her lip as she brought the hammer down on another nail, leaning back perilously and feeling her stomach clench at the feeling of so much air behind and below her. The crackling, released power in this area would ensure her fall a fatal one, and though she had brushed against death many times, she had never felt the pressure of its existence so keenly. Death Eaters were, after all, human. Many of them had hesitated, showed weakness or even mercy during critical battles. But the ground would not yield to her because she begged, nor the air suddenly become solid simply because she wished it.

A final tap with the small head. Her fingers reached, grabbed, slipped and even as her feet began to scramble on slick stone, she felt herself lose all contact with the mountainside and begin her free-fall back to earth, her stream of expletives lost to the heat and uncaring rock.

Seething air ripped past her as she tumbled, bringing stinging tears to her eyes. The mountain hurtled upwards, growing larger in her vision at an alarming rate she plummeted. As she twisted to see the unforgiving ground hurrying to meet her, instead of reviewing her twenty-five years that would be ending literally in seconds, her mind submitted an absurd thought:

_I don't get paid nearly enough for this. I wonder if Gringotts has any open positions?_

888

Her head was pounding, the coppery aftertaste of blood slid across her tongue, and as she breathed, pain caught in her ribs, tearing at her lungs and forcing out dry coughs.

She was, unmistakably, if unexpectedly, alive.

"Glad to see you're coming round," said a friendly, strangely familiar voice. She squinted her eyes open, intending to ease their adjustment to light, only to find it unnecessary. Stars glittered above her instead of the brightness of sunlight, and the shadows flickering over trees and rock were the result of a fire to her left. An experimental movement of her head neither eased nor increased the pain she felt, so she slowly tilted her face to find the owner of the voice.

The eyes that met her vision were the same bright blue as her ex-boyfriend's and the man she had once thought might be her father-in-law. When the firelight threw relief on bright-red hair, highlighting gold streaks, it startled the name from her lips.

"Ron?"

A deep laugh, lower in pitch than the one she knew from her days at school, and she saw the flames play over features too lined and too lived-in to be her best friend's.

"'Fraid not, Hermione. It's just Bill."

"Ah. Do I have you to thank for waking up to this migraine?"

He laughed again, and she felt her own smile stretching in response to his obvious concern and relief. "Making jokes, so you can't feel too badly. I suppose it is my fault that your head did hit the ground – barely, considering the speed at which you fell, but enough to risk a mild concussion. You gave us quite a fright, plummeting out of the sky like that."

"In the future, I'll spare your nerves and be sure to fall to my demise in a more secluded area," she quipped.

"I greatly appreciate the consideration," he responded cheerfully. Then the good-humored blue clouded slightly, the way Weasley faces always betrayed incoming bad news. Hermione's gut clenched, even the headache beating around her temples subsiding in the wake of her fear and worry. Had she rendered the curses unbreakable with her mistake?

"We haven't found your partner," Bill was saying gently. "Were they on the mountain with you, or did you have a base camp?"

Hermione blinked at him. Partner? She shook her head, forcing herself to take a deep breath in spite of the pain in her abdomen. "I don't have a partner." She paused to breath again. "I'm the only one the Ministry sent."

Bill's eyebrows hit his hairline, but before the stream of questions ripping through his gaze could find their way off his tongue, a young woman with a long sheet of silvery-blond hair, a flawless complexion and sea-blue eyes that could hypnotize a cobra was shoving him aside.

"'ave you given 'er somezing to eet?" The accent was undeniable, as were the refined features. But what interested Hermione most was the savory smell of stew coming from the wooden bowl in the quarter-veela's hands.

"It was important to determine whether we needed to be digging someone else out of the mountain, Gabrielle," Bill replied seriously.

"Yes, and now you know your job is done. It is time for 'ermione to eet and sleep." Though the young woman had to be almost fifteen years Bill's junior, there was no room for argument in her tone or her bearing. Bill smothered a smile and stood.

"As you say, madam. Far be it from me to argue with the camp mother." He gave Hermione a warm smile. "I'll be back to check on you – there are five of us here, so you'll never be alone. If you need anything, holler."

His strides faded as he was swallowed by the dark and Gabrielle Delacour settled herself next to Hermione's mattress.

"Men," the young woman said haughtily, flipping her hair back over her shoulder in a gesture so reminiscent of her older sister that Hermione stifled a smile. "Zey 'ave no sense of priorities. First, food, _zen _questions." Her pale hand lifted the spoon as Hermione struggled to right herself, sitting up in time for the stew to meet her lips, sending the aroma of beef, vegetables and potato wafting up her nostrils. Her stomach grumbled eagerly, and she opened her mouth, grateful as the savory mouthful overpowered the remaining tint of blood.

"Thank you," she said as she greedily took the last spoonful. Gabrielle fluttered a hand in dismissal.

"Of course. We must take care of our own, no?"

Hermione stared at her, trying to make sense now that her stomach was satisfied of a puzzle that not only had missing pieces but seemed to be morphing under her feet. Both Gabrielle and her sister had been invaluable during the war effort – brave, cunning, talented, and Hermione had vastly changed her opinion of the veela from her increased contact with the two Delacour daughters in those last, desperate months.

Still, what Gabrielle was doing here, camping in unsafe conditions in the British Virgin Islands, with her ex-brother-in-law when Bill and Fleur had divorced almost three years ago, was completely beyond the exhausted young woman's grasp. She drew breath to give voice to her famous curiosity, only to have the striking young part-veela silence her with a glance.

"You will 'ave many questions. I know Bill 'as a great deal to ask you. But now, you will sleep. Just like 'im, questions can wait for ze morning."

With a full stomach, a still-pounding head and fatigue rapidly claiming all the limbs of her body, Hermione was ill-inclined to argue. She nodded, stifling the yawn that had emerged on cue.

She barely felt her head touch the pillow.

888

Hermione dragged the back of her hand across her forehead, squinting at the mound of rock. It looked as black, imposing and impenetrable as the rest of the rock now encasing the quiet-once-more volcano, but their Dark Sensors practically screamed when brought within three hundred yards of this area. They could only presume that whatever the Ministry wanted, it was under this patch of rock.

She absently massaged her side where her newly-healed ribs throbbed with a dull ache. She had risen from their rough, makeshift hospital two days prior, refusing offers of an owl to notify the Ministry of her accident and asking to join the team. They had unanimously accepted her help – one of England's best was not to be turned away, regardless that the company was compounded exclusively of experts.

"Ribs bothering you?" Bill asked cheekily, taking a swig out of his canteen and passing it to her automatically.

"You wish," she snorted, dropping the fingers that betrayed the truth and pouring tepid water down her throat. She had to hand it to the party or parties responsible for this curse job – seven days in, a fully-equipped team comprised of witches and wizards with top qualifications in every major magical field, and they still had been unable to remove the curse that blocked the use of everyday magic – like keeping one's water cool and dust free. They could now level enough power to obliterate the mountain, but a basic healing charm was out of the question.

"If I weren't injured you wouldn't be able to keep up with me, old man," she teased. Bill pretended to look affronted as he snatched back the water, and she turned, making a show of checking her ropes while observing his easy manner, watching the way he lounged about on the freshly-hardened lava field as if it were his bedroll at camp.

Almost a decade her senior, Bill Weasley was tall and muscular, the scars Fenrir Greyback had inscribed on his face fading to rakishness after so much time...and the glint in his eyes told everyone watching that he was clearly just hitting his stride in the wizarding world. There was nothing old about him, and wouldn't be for at least another three decades.

He had also carried the title of the most formidable mind in the field for many years. With Outstanding NEWTs in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Transfiguration (even her own Arithmancy NEWT had equaled – not bested – his), the eldest Weasley son had made himself the go-to man for anyone not wishing to consult the Ministry to solve the problems of cursed heirlooms, traps and even whole residences. As powerful curses often guarded dangerous or valuable items, there were quite a few people interested in avoiding the Ministry cursebreakers– who, after all, worked in the same building as the Aurors and down the hall from the Hit Wizards. Though he officially worked for Gringotts, Bill had composed a team of his associates both at the bank and from other spheres to answer these specialty clients.

It added variety to his job; forced him to invent spells, potions, and equations for each newly discovered curse and had made him, by far, the wealthiest, as well as fittest, member of his family.

_Fleur's an idiot,_ Hermione thought suddenly – and stopped herself, shocked and slightly horrified. Where had that thought come from? She had, of course, heard the reasons for the divorce, being practically family herself, and had fully agreed with them. She still did.

"Hermione?" His tanned hand touched the back of hers, and it took the reflexes trained in combat to keep her from jumping and betraying her single-track, if wayward, train of thought.

"Sorry..." she trailed off, unable to think of a single reasonable excuse to have been tuning him out.

"Arithmancy. We can't get this rock out the way without doing some equations for variables in mass and how to move it."

"What if we Transfigure it," Hermione offered slowly. "Into water. And then it would simply flow away."

Bill stared at her, blue eyes going wide. "That's brilliant...as long as we could channel the tide into the sea. We don't want a flood on our hands." He grunted as he tasted the warming water in his flask again. "And assuming we can reverse this piece of work – genius, really, to ensure whoever tries to unlock this mountain has to do so in the least comfort."

"It's kind of like camping out as a Muggle," Hermione said with a laugh. "Your dad would love to be here."

"Indeed," Bill grinned at her. "When we tell the story next Christmas, we'll have to remember every detail. He'll salivate more over the missed opportunity than Mum's cooking."

888

"And that's it!" cried Kevin O'Reilly, his wand forming the last flourish in the pentagram. Hermione felt the air charge with magic...

And the power dissipated. With a whoop, three of them cast simultaneous Area Cooling Charms, causing everyone to shiver as the temperature rapidly dropped to sub-zero. Laughing, Hermione and Choj Tanaka retracted theirs, joining in the general shaking hands and expressions of glee. It had taken a week and a half to dismantle the ward against simple magic, but in the meantime they had navigated the more draining task of actually cracking the mountain open, and now it was only a matter of days until they retrieved what was inside.

Hermione felt strong arms pulling her off the ground, swinging her in an arc of enthusiasm. "Absolutely perfect work, Hermione," Bill murmured in her ear. "A pentagram? And here I thought Professor Binns never taught us anything useful."

The young witch laughed, and was surprised by the gaiety of the sound coming from her mouth – a lighthearted note that the stress of her life had long since subdued. As the tall man set her down again, the lithe young woman was suddenly, exclusively, aware of the hands that nearly circled her slender waist, the heat of his fingers as they met each other over her lower back, the weight of his palms pressed against her sides. Breathlessness swamped her and she swallowed as she nerved herself to meet his gaze.

The blue snapped with amusement...and a heart-quickening interest. Hermione had long shared an easy familiarity with all of the Weasley brothers – even the third, after he had joined the Final Battle on the side of the Order – and had been fondly viewed as a second little sister by Percy and the twins, who had been with her at Hogwarts for several years. Her conversations with the oldest brother had been few and far between – he had been distracted by Fleur and work, she by Ron and school, and though their brief contact had allowed her merely a glimpse of the formidable mind buried under the long hair and "cool" persona, she had never sought him out, assuming that he viewed her in the same light as his younger siblings.

But there was nothing brotherly about the gentle massage of his fingers on her spine, or the intensity of his stare.

"Hey, Weasley! No fraternizing on duty. That's what the victory parties are for!" announced Choj, breaking them up effectively by wrapping his own arms around the young witch who had so unexpectedly been added to their team. Choj winked at his boss as he shattered the moment and Bill released Hermione with an easy smile, neither so quickly as to give the impression of being caught out nor so slowly that his hands lingered. But the speculative gleam to his eye did not fade as he turned away to have his back slapped by the rest of their enthusiastic colleagues.

888

"Hermione..." Bill's easy-going voice echoed taut and unreadable in the musty air swirling in the middle of the mountain, wonder, anger and a sense of betrayal imbuing his words. "Look at this."

Hermione turned in the tiny chamber, swinging her wand with her so that the glowing tip spewed light in an overlapping circle with the beam emanating from his. "What-" she gasped. Silver flashed in the brilliance of her _Lumos_, egg-sized rubies catching and reflecting the light like fresh-fallen blood. The relic that had saved Ginny Weasley all those years ago. The item they had so desperately desired while destroying the Horcruxes. Godric Gryffindor's sword.

The former members of the lion house stared at one another, completely non-plussed. "Did you know this was here?"

"No," Hermione whispered in a shaky voice. "I've actually been researching – are there any papers here?" she interrupted herself as she lifted her wand higher, the beam of light spreading wanly over the interior of the mountain.

"Why?"

"Because there were critical lists of those suspected of Dark activity that vanished with the sword. If it's here, they might be as well." As her eyes scanned the room sharply, looking for likely caches of papers, a question she had not yet managed to ask abruptly became one of complete importance.

She faced the man she had been working for over the past two weeks and felt her stomach flutter with nerves born of attraction and fear. She desperately hoped that the answer to her query would not destroy her fledgling feelings.

"Who contracted you for this assignment?"

"Actually, it was Gringotts. But this mountain has become sort of a cursebreaker's Holy Grail – seven different groups have tried to crack it for various employers and everyone has failed. Which is why the Goblins care about it at all, really. They're banking on the fact that if aristocrats who can afford the ridiculous price of private cursebreakers want what's here so desperately, then so do they. So they allowed me to bring my full team." He shook his head as he gazed at the razor-edged blade. "They'll give me the moon to have this back – one of the finest pieces wrought in the history of Goblin Smithies."

Hermione only half-heard his answer after he had confirmed that it was for the Goblins, relief drowning the rest of his words. As an emerging woman, righteous anger at those who had not bothered to lift a finger to defeat Voldemort obviously flourishing in the wake of his demise would have caused her mouth to pinch in disapproval and contempt. A few of the short, shrewd race had pitched in their lot on both sides of the conflict, but Gringotts had remained smugly untouched and unaffiliated, pristine Switzerland in the middle of war-ravaged Europe, and for a time after the collapse of the Dark Lord, Hermione had adamantly converted all of her money into pounds, protesting their neutrality.

But on this side of history, their staunch refusal to bend either way would prove useful. She did not have to fear that Bill Weasley would be turning the artefact over to those who would return it to the traitor or traitors. The Goblins would jealousy guard that which they had paid for – especially when they'd made it in the first place.

In the dark, she would have missed it had her foot not come squarely into contact with something bulky that was, nevertheless, clearly not stone. She knelt, swinging her wand downwards, and felt her pulse rise in response as her eyes flickered over an unprepossessing black valise, clearly packed with something. Hesitantly, almost reverently, she reached for the zipper – so long unused in the damp atmosphere that it was tinged with the dull red of rust – and slowly pulled it open.

Her face glowed as if she'd found the legendary City of Gold as she started to scan the annotated and cross-referenced lists, papers slightly mildewy from their incarceration on the tropical island, but still quite legible. "Bill, I found-" her triumphant cry ceased as she choked on air, shock rendering her mute, elation buried in an avalanche of surprised denial.

"No..." the copper-headed man heard her whisper as he scrambled over the uneven floor. His hand fell on her back, and she flinched automatically at the touch. He frowned as he dropped the offending appendage. Their flirtatious exchanges at camp over the past few days had made it only too clear that she welcomed such familiarity. What had she discovered that bothered her so deeply?

"Hermione?" he murmured, far enough away not to startle her.

"Those bastards," she hissed, and in a fluid motion, she was standing, several papers clutched violently in her fist, eyes wild, cheeks white and teeth bared. Bill almost backed away instinctively from this feral creature – not the warm human woman he had known for many years and had recently come to have a greater appreciation for, but a cornered and snarling lioness.

"Those BASTARDS!" she screamed, and the sound was primal as the man in front of her fought his desire to flee and stepped towards his suddenly-unstable friend. He grasped the papers she was crumpling in her fingers with one hand, the other going to her shoulder.

"Hermione, Hermione – breathe," he whispered as she began shaking, her tremors as fierce as a kayak riding white water. "Breathe. And give me these." Her smaller hand slowly flexed open, and he tugged the offending sheets away, smoothing them out one-handed against his side as he pulled her to stand next to him, his presence reassuring her, quaking subsiding as quiet tears took its place.

Bill glanced over the forms, and felt his own limbs go rigid, his eyes seeing red very briefly as his nimble mind connected all the dots, flashes of photos and announcements from the _Daily Prophet_ enhancing his indignation. Hermione was right. Those _bastards._

888

"Kalman Komez,Director of the Ministry's Cursebreaking Department, ordered Auror Nymphadora Tonks to hand over the extensive lists of those citizens on watch for Death Eater activity. After that, this important information simply 'disappeared.'" Hermione could hear the trademark anger that had passed from Mrs. Weasley to many of her sons bleeding into Bill's stiff voice and felt her throat tighten. Tonks and two other Aurors had been fired and placed on trial for this very incident. The daughter of pure-blood Andromeda Tonks neé Black had been released and spirited the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, but her compatriots, both Muggle-born wizards, had been sentenced to Azkaban.

"Apparently," the team's leader was continuing, "Komez sent them to Augustus Rookwood at the direct command of Rufus Scrimgeour," Bill said grimly, laying another sheet down on the paper trail spreading out before their stunned colleagues, a series of official documents punctuated by the unruly scribbles of hastily-written inter-office memos and personal letters. "Rookwood sent them to the French Ministry," as his long finger settled on a communique written in curly French, his sea-colored eyes darted to his ex-half-sister and protege.

The young quarter-veela seized the paper from the table, scanned it, let loose several exclamations that sounded quite vulgar in her native tongue and lifted blazing, crystalline eyes. "My fazzer must hear of zis. He works with Meester Rookwood's cousin, who 'as a place in our government-"

"-which would be how the Death Eaters knew that the Goblins were shipping some of their most valued items to our far more peaceful cousin across the channel. Including the sword," Kevin finished quietly, the group drawing a collective breath. Gryffindor's fabled weapon had been the most famous missing piece, but far from the only Goblin-made item they had discovered in the tiny room located in the heart of the volcano.

"How many people does this implicate?" Choj asked uncertainly.

"As near as we can tell, at least seventeen at various levels of our government – three of which, including Scrimgeour, are retired. And a half-dozen of the French." A low whistle.

"No wonder they never wanted this to leak...do we have a motive?" Tamara, their on-team Potions Mistress asked quietly.

"Helping Voldemort win, I presume," Hermione offered, ignoring the collective flinch at the sound of the ex-tyrant's name. Even after seven years, the mythology built around him persisted, a fact which both amused and disgusted her. Raising the man as inhuman would only inspire another brilliantly mad wizard to follow in his footsteps. But she wasn't the one writing the history books, so she simply continued to call him by his name. "The loss of these scrolls – damning evidence in and of themselves of more than one hundred open and covert supporters of Riddle, coupled with the loss of several highly magical Goblin-made items that could have been used to focus tremendous power – enough to, say, destroy a Horcrux, points clearly to treason. Everything that vanished represented a very solid threat to the rising Death Eaters."

"So..." Kevin let the question dangle in the air, his brown eyes fastening almost apologetically on Hermione. They had been hired by Gringotts, and their first loyalty had to be to their employer, even as they held hard evidence of one of the largest conspiracies ever to take place in the wizarding world.

"Gringotts will be informed of everything we have found," Bill said calmly, "and all of the artefacts will be handed to them. Most of them belong to the Goblins anyway. But the papers are property of the Auror Office. I believe Hermione and I have a friend we can persuade to be discreet about giving them to the Minister?" His blue eyes sparkled mischievously as they caught hers.

Hermione grinned.

"Shouldn't we simply send them to the Minister directly?" Tamara pitched in. "We wouldn't want them going astray again."

"Tamara – the friend Bill referred to is Harry Potter. They won't be going _anywhere_ except into Kingsley's lap," Hermione told her with a delighted laugh. The ringing sound broke the tension and chuckles overlapped in the hot evening air as Bill waved a hand to return the precious documents to their moldering valise and thoughts turned from toppling governments to making dinner.

888

When he rose, the pre-dawn light illuminated a figure already standing, gazing at the mountain that had occupied the past month of their time, wind pulling the unruly curls that Rita Skeeter had described in so many unflattering ways back from her face. Her delicate, tanning features were a picture of relaxed concentration as tendrils of hair whipped around her and he was sure he'd never seen anyone so beautiful.

Bill Weasley suddenly felt extraordinarily unsure of himself. For the wizard in his mid-thirties, it was an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling. Perhaps it was because his marriage to Fleur, while not disastrous, had, nevertheless, been a complete failure, and he had been skittish with women ever since. Or maybe he had simply never met a woman the equal of Hermione Granger.

He knew that his mother had practically planned the young woman's wedding to his youngest brother seven years ago, only to have that dream unexpectedly shattered when one day shortly after the fall of Voldemort Ron had turned around and said, "_Marry_ Hermione, Mum? That would never work. After Riddle died we realized we simply didn't have enough in common – Harry and the war, yeah, but that's over. I love Hermione, but she'll be better off with some Arithmancer and me – I want to coach Junior League Quidditch and be with a woman who doesn't shy away from a baby as if she's afraid she'll break it by touching it."

Ron did coach Junior League, had gotten married two summers ago, and was practically bursting with pride as he gazed at his wife, now four months along with their first. Bill, knowing the torch Ron had carried for his best friend for years, had been surprised by his brother's mature assessment. Though not lacking in the brains that graced the rest of the family, Ron preferred sports and children to complex maths, letting his significant intelligence shine forth in his chess games and his wicked poker hands. Hermione, in stark contrast, spent hours buried in her solitary work, equally happy in the presence of friends and the puzzles that composed a cursebreaker's world.

She had been an unexpected bounty, dropped into his life for four weeks to push his mind, test his mettle, and tease him with a familiarity born of so many dinners shared in the same house, the knowledge that they had both worked for a common goal. Bill had always loved his job, but the past thirty days had been exhilarating in a whole new way – the true enjoyment of pitting his brain against an equal, of re-learning the balance of trust as they had scaled the treacherous rock to find new layers of magic again and again. Her mind never failed to astonish him, and he had been gratified to realize that she returned the sentiment.

"Good morning," she greeted him quietly and he realized that his feet had carried him to her side without his noticing, leaving him to stand slightly behind her shoulder, close enough to feel the hair on his arms rising towards her with their proximity, but not yet touching.

"Hi," he replied. The easiness of earlier conversations and flirting had evaporated, leaving awkwardness in its wake. He struggled to find something to say. "Work will be different when you get back," he finally managed to spit out.

She smiled even as he cringed at the bland obviousness of his statement. They should be having a fascinating discussion that she would insist on continuing by owl, and then perhaps over lunches and coffee dates when he was in London until they could...

And here he was talking about _work_.

"Actually, I won't be," she darted a glance at him, her tongue flickering out to wet suddenly-dry lips. "Going back, I mean. I'm submitting my resignation as soon as we arrive."

"But – I know you hated your boss, but what we've found will get rid of Komez. Surely you would be one of the people they'd consider as a replacement for him," Bill blurted. "Hermione – you're so good at this. And you love it. Why quit?"

Her mouth quirked. "I loved being _here_," she corrected him. "I do enjoy this work and what it takes to solve the problems we come across – my record shows that. But I despise working for the Ministry, not just for Komez. I loathe the internal politics and the constant heckling and jockeying for position and the _paperwork_...I've heard Tamara grumble a bit, but, believe me, the Goblins want nothing in comparison to the double-and-triple checked forms the Ministry require." She suddenly turned to face him as the first sliver of golden globe slipped over the horizon, illuminating half her face in liquid light. "Actually, I was wondering if Gringotts is taking applications. I would like..." her breath hitched and Bill felt his heart begin thumping erratically in his chest, "I would like to work with you."

For a moment, all Bill could do was stare at her, uncertain he could credit his ears, half-positive that he had slipped back into the world of dreams.

"What?"

Her guardedly-hopeful face crumbled at his exclamation of surprise. She had feared that she was not good enough, and although she had held her own well against the rest of the team, it was a completed unit without her. Why would he want to add someone eight years younger than the youngest member now, someone who, for all her experience, had no Master's qualification? She ignored the distinctly feminine voice of vanity and hurt pride that had expected a slightly more enthusiastic response from him based on the way their fingers had collided while cooking, their legs pressed together too often, the way his gaze followed her when he thought she wasn't paying attention.

Bill watched her honey-brown eyes shutter and knew he had to save the situation from his own blundering. _Apparently, some things _do _run in the family_, he thought in chagrin as he recalled Ron's many fond reminiscences of saying exactly the wrong thing to this girl, and the arguments that invariably followed.

"Of course," he corrected himself instantly, and he allowed one of his most disarming grins to crease his face. "I'll take you on this team anytime. As to Gringotts, I can make no promises, but I'll recommend you, and as one of their top cursebreakers, they'll take me seriously."

The smile that split her features, erasing all evidence of disappointment, stopped his breath in his throat. "Really?" she whispered, and a moment later, he was holding an armful of beautiful and wonderfully happy young witch as she squeezed him round his middle. "Thank you!"

The slender arms were clearly stronger than they looked. "Hermione, I can't breathe," he protested. Her embrace loosened briefly, and before awkwardness could swamp them again, she was standing on tip-toe, pressing her mouth to his.

The years worth of shyness following Fleur were incinerated in the instant, insistent boiling of his blood. Here was a witch who embodied everything he'd ever dreamed of – passion, brains, daring – her lips enthusiastically engaging his, her lean body pushed against him, making awareness of anything other than her absolutely impossible...

A wolf's whistle split the early-morning air, and the couple parted in embarrassment, only to see Choj grinning broadly as other sleepers stirred, blinking myopically as they struggled to rouse themselves for their last morning, following the direction of the Asian's gaze.

"Finally," Tamara muttered as she pulled her hair back. "I was wondering if you were going to let her walk away from you, Weasley."

Hermione could feel the flush burning through her tanned features, but Bill snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her back to mold against his side perfectly, as if she were the missing piece in his puzzle.

"Never," he laughed, and the blue eyes glittered with equal parts hope and seriousness as he gazed down at the wild-haired witch, whose head was tilted up to match the intensity of his gaze.

"Never."

88888888  
A/N: Sorry, I forgot to thank those who reviewed the Lily-Lucius piece the first time around - bad author!

Shogi: Yes, the Lily-Lucius piece was all for you - you guys have had amazing suggestions that I NEVER would have dreamed of putting together in a million years. I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Although I have not gone exploring the genre much, it's interesting that a lot of what you've read in that arena belongs to the non-con world. It's a twisted 'ship, but not that twisted. Anyway - I'm very gratified that it lived up to expectations!

BellatrixMarlaLovett: Wondering here if, by any chance, the Lovett belongs to Mrs. Lovett of "Sweeney Todd"...big fan of Stephen Sondheim. Thanks for reading a reviewing. Something with Bellatrix...now there's a character I have never focused on...definitely has some curious possibilities...

Katia Dashwood: Thank you! Until recently, when I fell in love with Jason Issacs for his role in "The Patriot", Lucius had always been my quintessential bad guy - more fun to play with than Voldemort, but completely unsympathetic nevertheless. I'm glad you're enjoying my view of a slightly more conflicted character. I think one of the several cans of worms that JKR opened in DH was the inner life of the Malfoy family, and they were a great deal more conflicted than I had ever given them credit for. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	6. The Trial

Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money.

A/N: Again, unrelated to previous chapters of this piece. This is a Lucius-Hermione pairing, requested by CheetahLiv. It is completely AU following "Order of the Phoenix."

The root idea for this fic belongs unabashedly to "Pretty Girl", a video on YouTube made by ZoettaPerry. Although the ending is somewhat different, you can watch the video on YouTube if you search for Hermione-Lucius and click on "Pretty Girl Remake". I strongly recommend it, because (in my humble opinion) it's a well-done video, and, after all, a picture is worth a thousand words - it gave me inspiration for a pairing that I have never before even thought about.

The Trial

Draco's hands shook as he fumbled his tie, cursing himself as it once again ended up in a snarled knot instead of the dignified stripe of color it was supposed to be. He had been able to tie a tie since his fifth birthday. And now, eleven years later, his hands couldn't make the simple, automatic motions.

But at five, he hadn't been preparing to attend his father's trial for being caught dressed in the resplendent black of a Death Eater at the site where the Dark Lord had finally been spied by the Minister. Now Draco was sixteen, and knew full well that the Wizengamot was going to take Lucius from him, one way or another.

Permanently.

The knock at his dormitory door startled him and he dropped the loosened ends again, biting his tongue to restrain an outburst unseemly of a Malfoy.

"Can I help you?" he ground out, giving up on his impossible accessory while any of his Housemates might see him struggling with it.

"Are you decent?"

It was the sheer unexpectedness of that voice that threw him, keeping him from immediately recognizing it, and he had answered in the affirmative before his brain could catch up with his mouth.

The door swung back to reveal no one, closed meticulously...and Hermione Granger emerged from under Potter's Invisibility Cloak.

Draco froze, unable to move or process thought as hatred roared to the forefront of his mind, eclipsing everything else. The Mudblood bitch had been at the Ministry a scant six days ago with Potter and the rest of them. It was her fault his father had been carted off to Azkaban unceremoniously, leaving his mother alone and his own status shattered. It was her doing that he was in front of his mirror with cold and sweaty palms, dreading walking into the Ministry of Magic, knowing that the man he had admired his entire life would end either soulless, mad or dead.

"You," he snarled hoarsely, taking a step towards her, wand forgotten. He would kill her with his bare hands.

Hermione could see the light of loathing flush the younger Malfoy's face and, instead of backing away, she rushed to him, pinning his arms to his side with her hands as she gazed desperately into his face, hoping that the rash movement, so out-of-character from their previous five years of interaction, would shock him out his knee-jerk response to her presence.

"Malfoy – Draco...please," she whispered. "Take me with you."

The soft words had exactly the effect she intended. Rage subsided, and Draco took in her pale, wan features, eyes rimmed red with tears and felt his world began to destabilize.

"What?" he replied, so flabbergasted he forgot to sneer or push her filthy hands away, just staring down at her face, whiter than usual, haloed in dark hair.

"You are going to his trial. Take me with you."

The word trial spurred him to action, and now he did set both of his larger hands on her shoulders and shove her backwards. "Why? To gloat? Haven't you done enough damage, Mudblood?"

_Crack!_ His cheek stung where her hand had connected furiously for the second time in their Hogwarts careers. "I don't care who your father is, Malfoy, _never_ use that word in front of me." She shuddered as if swallowing tears, anger passing in the blink of an eye. "It has nothing to do with gloating. I need to go...I have to see him," she whispered.

His metaphorical earth already rupturing under his feet, Draco felt it begin to shift in earnest. There was another story here, something else that he didn't know, didn't understand. If Granger was here, where were her bodyguards? And why the tearful pleading? Though he had discussed Granger extensively at home – her grades, her lineage and her place as one of Harry Potter's two best friends making her a subject to be carefully torn apart and examined – his parents had only seen her two or three times. Given who they served, she should be singing and dancing that his father was going to be condemned to either a Dementor's Kiss or a life sentence in Azkaban...

"Why?" he repeated quietly, surprised to hear all fury drained from his voice as well.

She took a deep breath and gave him a sharp look, as if measuring him. "You cannot tell anyone, Malfoy, _anyone_. If you do, what happened to Marietta Edgecomb this year will look like paradise by comparison. Agreed?"

He nodded mutely, the curiosity his father had encouraged in him since birth outweighing the animosity born of habit. She inhaled again, and then looked him dead in the eye. "I've been..." she groped for the right word, knowing that the truth would anger him, seeking the best way to cushion the shock, "...seeing Lucius. Since Christmas."

Draco stared at her, completely speechless, this pronouncement sending an earthquake that broke the foundations of his life in two. He wasn't sure which word shocked him more: 'seeing' or her comfortable pronunciation of his father's given name.

"I haven't been able to contact him since we were in the Department of Mysteries...and it's my fault he was arrested," she whispered miserably, water pooling in her brown eyes. "I...if I hadn't been there...if I had been able to convince Harry of Voldemort's trick...Lucius wanted to spare us. Tried to control your dear _aunt_," her voice hardened, "tried to hold her back, fearing for my life."

"_Seeing_?" Draco finally managed to spit out, the rest of her confession having gone unheard. "You...my father...?" He looked utterly bewildered, so surprised that disgust could not gain a foothold on his emotional landscape. "How?"

"I'm not going to discuss our private life with you," she replied with a dignity oddly underscored by the tears now carving tracks down her face. "Just, _please_, Draco – can I go with you?"

Something stirred in the younger Malfoy as he gazed at his academic rival of five years. He had hated her more viciously than he could ever despise Potter – the black-haired Gryffindor represented everything he loathed, but Potter was merely a symbol. His battle with Granger was deeply personal. She was a walking, breathing dichotomy, an unnatural aberration that should not exist. And she was better at life than he was.

But they shared a depth of caring for the man currently seated in a cell in the basement of the Ministry, and, suddenly, that superseded everything else. Draco had found himself standing alone the morning the _Daily Prophet_ had printed the article detailing the arrest of Lucius Malfoy and five others. He had turned to his familiar sources of comfort – only to find them all withdrawn, Pansy and Blaise practically tripping over each other in an effort to distance themselves from the abruptly-disgraced pureblood family.

And here stood a Gryffindor girl with tears in her eyes and scars on her heart that mirrored his own. He might hate her, but it was clear that she loved his father. Though he should have been spitting his denial and shame, it was suddenly unimportant. What they shared would do as a platform for unity.

"Yes. I'll take you."

She smiled. It was not one of relief or even gratitude, but one of determination, and Draco felt it feeding his own flagging spirits.

It was good to have an ally.

888

Lucius sat, straight-backed and stiff in the chair as it wrapped it's ropes around his wrists, tight enough to remind him that he occupied the unenviable position he had avoided for more than two decades: that of a prisoner. The Wizengamot was coming to order, his Dementor guards fading into the background, their soul-sucking presence disappearing with them.

His eyes swept the gallery. Doloros Jane Umbridge – a toad who was, nevertheless, sure to be a sympathetic voice...seated next to the entirely-too-clever Amelia Bones, who was equally certain _not_ to be. A slight movement of his head brought the spectators into view and he winced as he noticed the sheer volume of them. A lot of people were here to see him convicted.

For voicing empty sentiments he no longer believed in. For the deliberate destruction of the Ministry that had covered his failure to conquer a half-dozen teenagers. In another time and place, the irony would have made him laugh. For his first genuine service to the cause championed by Albus Dumbledore, he would pay the price for his previous crimes. All for the past six months that had turned his four decades of living squarely on its head.

Because he had turned around when collecting Draco from the Hogwarts Express last Christmas and seen a woman disembarking from the gleaming red train. He would not have noticed her – but she had been looking at him when his gaze raked over her, and vivacious spirit had rolled from her almost palpably, eyes bright, inquisitive, challenging. And pure. She had captured him in the space of a heartbeat. He had promised himself that he would have her if she would let him.

And she had.

There, in the first row, he could see the pristine features of his wife. He met her gaze briefly, noting that it was as cool and collected as always. Should he manage to land on his feet, she would rush to his side and assure the public of her faithfulness and devotion to her wonderful husband. Should the Dementors take his soul, she would loudly decry him and tearfully lament his influence on her innocent son, saving both of them and the Malfoy name from the consuming fires of hysteria now eating the wizarding world.

Next to her was Draco, not nearly as composed as his mother, though he was attempting to be, and any emotional outburst on his part would be excused as a boy not yet old enough to understand the consequences of his father's actions grieving for the loss of his parent.

Seated on Draco's left side-

-he thought his heart would stop as he met those cinnamon eyes shot through with gold from the torches. She had come. Dressed in flattering green robes that stressed her womanhood instead of the school outfit that confined her to the realm of children, he could not help the smile that ghosted across his mouth or the tenderness that lit his eyes. She had come for him, braving the whispers and rumors that filled the seats around her, wearing the color of his House in a subtle declaration of her support.

He saw a flash of pale grey silk tucked into her sleeve and he swiftly turned his eyes back to his knees before his delight betrayed them both. The handkerchief he had given her after their first meeting. The lady wore her knight's colors as he strode forth to do battle. He felt oddly stronger just for her being there. Narcissa was present because a proper wife could not and would not abandon her husband. But Hermione's coming had been her choice, her characteristically Gryffindor display of courage, seated with his family, throwing herself into the serpents' nest.

For him.

Cornelius Fudge, looking exhausted and on tenter-hooks (the man was being asked to resign, or so the story went), slammed his gavel down on his bench, calling for silence.

The expectant hush fell.

"This court is now in session. Today marks the first day of the trial of Mr. Lucius Malfoy of Wiltshire, who was arrested six nights ago on June the seventeenth, year of our Lord 1996. He is charged with the following crimes: breaking and entering into the Ministry of Magic, destruction of the Hall of Prophecy, widespread damage to many valuable artifacts and papers in the Department of Mysteries, service to You-Know-Who as one of his Death Eaters, concealment of You-Know-Who's return..."

888

The first day was over. Minor witnesses had been called by the prosecution, a ruthless wizard who was Head of the Auror Core with a mane of hair reminiscent of a lion's: Rufus Scrimgeour. He had interviewed anyone and everyone who had flooed into the main hall of the Ministry the evening of the battle, alerted to the break-in by a source everyone was refusing to name. Likely a member of Albus Dumbledore's secret organization, Phoenix Feathers or the Order of the Phoenix, or whatever the old man had named them.

Lucius' posture was as rigid as it had been that morning, showing no signs of fatigue or despair. It was beneath him to break down in front of nearly a thousand witches and wizards, not to mention the court, especially when so many of the spectators were from the press.

As the session was called to a close, Narcissa was the first to approach his chair in the milling public. A wall of magic prevented anyone from getting closer than three feet, ensuring that no one could touch him or pass him anything, even if his hands weren't bound.

"Controlled, as always, Husband," Narcissa greeted him quietly. He could read appreciation in her eyes, but she was careful to keep her voice neutral. The witnesses already made his case look bad, and this was before Harry Potter and his friends would be hauled before the Wizengamot later in the week.

He inclined his head to her. "Thank you. You must pay me a visit, dear – I think I am to be allowed to stay here since my trial resumes tomorrow."

She nodded and moved to the cautiously consoling arms of Patricia Parkinson – mother being far more forgiving than daughter – allowing Draco and Hermione to step together towards the chair.

"Father..." Draco hesitated, swallowed all of the sentiments that threatened to burst out of him, and instead put forth the lie that he and Hermione had hastily crafted _en route_ from Hogwarts that morning, speaking loudly enough that the _Prophet_ reporters nearby would be sure to hear him. "I would like you to meet my girlfriend, Hermione Granger."

Lucius' eyes widened fractionally, darting to the witch at his son's side. What he saw there instantly pacified the momentary bolt of hurt and betrayal. In clear defiance of his son's words, she had eyes only for him, large, luminous and filled with simultaneous relief and pain. He wished he could reach out to touch her, if only to reassure himself of her reality, and he flexed his fingers against the chair unconsciously with his desire.

"Hermione," he greeted her quietly, surprising his son with the undeniable caring that saturated his voice.

"Lucius," she murmured softly. _Clever_, the older wizard thought, _very clever_. Now the girl would attend the trial and even visit him in his cell at his son's side without any consequences to herself and, in fact, improve Draco's standing in the almost guaranteed event of his conviction. No one would believe that the younger Malfoy was following in the footsteps of a man who publicly denounced witches of Hermione's background.

"Did I just hear 'girlfriend' young Mr. Malfoy?" Rita Skeeter was standing with her Quick Quotes Quill at the ready, practically breathless as her sidekick danced around them, snapping photos. The reporter turned a smug smile on Malfoy Senior.

"Given your dedication to pureblood supremacy, Mr. Malfoy, I suppose this must come as quite a shock. Your own heir dating Harry Potter's Muggle-born best friend!" Her attention zeroed in on Draco again. She might hate Hermione Granger, but she would never pass up this opportunity. With the trial to fan the flames, this story was good for the whole summer. "What drew you to this astonishing young woman, Draco? Especially against all of your father's ideals? How does Harry Potter feel about his acknowledged rival dating his ex-girlfriend?"

"To clarify," Hermione interrupted, giving Skeeter a pointed glance, "I never dated Harry, and I never will."

"I should say you won't," Draco echoed his father's silent sentiment out loud, laying a possessive arm around Hermione's waist and deliberately leading the rapidly congregating reporters and photographers away from the accused's chair.

888

"_What _was that?" Narcissa snapped as soon as she stepped into her husband's cell.

"Narcissa, my love, it's so pleasant to see you," he remarked pointedly, gesturing to the wooden chair provided for his visitors. She cast a glance at the rickety frame, clearly decided that standing was the better choice, and glared at her mate, icy blue eyes sparking with unexpected fire. "What was what?"

"That Mudblood," she hissed.

Lucius tilted his head and sneered in return, "I don't know. How is it that our son could be even remotely tempted by her – shall we say dubious – charms? It certainly wasn't in the values _I _tried to instill him."

Narcissa laughed, and the hair on the back of Lucius' neck stood up. Given a decade or more in Azkaban, and his wife could easily go as mad as her sister. "I'd say it runs in his genetics," she replied, the sweetness of poison injected into her words. "Considering the look you turned on her and the fact that she was clearly _dying_ to touch you, pressed up against their magical barrier like a bitch in heat."

Lucius' grey eyes went glacial as he glowered at her, acting finished as he raised hands manacled together in clear threat, all trace of the elegant aristocrat banished in his defense of that which he defined as his own. "If you speak of her so again, Merlin help me, wand or no, I will kill you, Narcissa."

The blond witch stared at him, disbelief stamped on her fine features. Her husband would never threaten her so for a mere toy. "What is she to you, Lucius?" she whispered hoarsely. And as her partner turned his face away, obscuring it with his trademark long, almost-white hair, she received her answer in a burst of painful clarity.

"You _love_ her?" The stunned look on her face prompted a mirthless smirk from her husband as she conceded to her weakening knees and collapsed into the chair so recently disdained. "Since when? For how long...a _Mudblood_? _That _Mudblood?"

"Do not call her that," he admonished quietly. "As for how long – it is irrelevant." He shot her an irritated glance when she made to interrupt. "Spare me your indignation, Narcissa. Hermione and I have obviously kept it absolutely secret, and Draco's intelligent maneuver today will ensure that it remains so. Ours was an arranged marriage – you have kept your lovers, allow me mine."

The peculiar expression of tenderness that crossed his face when he used the child's first name inflamed her further. To think a girl a bare few months older than his son could pull from the cold noble what she, his wife of twenty years, could not...

"Not when they endanger the whole family!" she snapped. "Our Master would never-"

"Our Master has no need to know, Narcissa," Lucius replied, getting quieter as her voice grew shriller. "And, as you so wisely pointed out, it is a great risk to all of you, so I have little reason to fear that you shall turn me in to him, don't I?"

She glared at him and strode to the door. "He knows _everything_, Lucius. Sooner or later, he always finds out. What lies do you intend to tell to cover for yourself? For us?"

Lucius shook his head. "He is obsessed with Potter. This is of no consequence to him." Pain briefly conquered the never-ending coolness that tinted his eyes. "I have given him my life. From before I was Draco's age, his approval was all that mattered to me. I gave him my marriage bed and promised him my heir. He will now claim my death, my mind, my soul or all three. Do you begrudge me this one thing that I value, the only part of my life that is _mine_?"

"She's a _child_." Narcissa's face twisted with loathing, and Lucius thought that perhaps one of the reasons Hermione – for all her inexperience – had captured him was that her features had never known such a feeling, she had never sunk to such a depth.

"She's a woman. Strong, willful, brave. Strong enough to stand with her friends against her lover if she must, competent enough to defend herself against a fully grown Dark wizard. Show me the one from our numbers who can say the same."

The insult found its mark, and Narcissa's lily-white hand paled further in fury on the door handle. "Don't expect too many visits from your doting wife, _my love_," she sneered.

"'Doting' wife?" he parried. "I wasn't aware that I had one."

The cell reverberated with the slam as she stormed out. Lucius ignored it as he settled down to wait, adjusting the long chain that fastened him to the wall to put the least pressure on his wrists.

_The only part of my life that is _mine. He could wait for her for eternity.

888

Draco shifted nervously as the guard outside Lucius' cell jabbed a Secrecy Sensor into various pockets of his robes. He and Hermione had agreed to wait an excruciating three days through the trial to give the appearance of a reluctant couple being forced by propriety and a general 'sense of decency' to see his father. Trust the wardens to stretch his thin patience to the snapping point now that they were finally here.

"What's this, eh?" the suspicious wizard snapped, removing a small black-and-white chessboard.

"It's a chessboard," Draco replied, keeping a tight reign on his temper. Unfortunately, the sarcasm he had been taught to use as a defensive tool slipped through. "What does it look like?"

"Don't get smart with me, son," the guard narrowed his eyes and pointedly passed the game to his partner. "You might be dating a Muggle-born who's also Harry Potter's best friend, but you're still the spawn of one of _them_." The other guard was waving his wand over the tiny marble-made set, but after a few minutes intense concentration, he handed it back with a shrug.

"No magic at all. It's just a game. I don't even think it's a Wizard Chess set."

"No, it's Muggle," Hermione quickly supplied. "A gift I gave to Draco."

"Uh-huh. All right, missy, now you," the second wizard gestured for Hermione to step forward. Much to Draco's indignation, the same Sensor that had probed him thoroughly barely skimmed over the witch's body. Whether because she was female or because she was a well-known fixture in the life of the Boy Who Lived, Draco didn't know.

Both, however, had to surrender their wands.

"Ministry policy," said the first smugly, claiming their most important tools and making a show of tucking them into his robes. "You get an hour at the most." He chuckled nastily. "But his wife was out of here in less than ten minutes, I'd say. How long do we think the son will last?" His eyes perused Hermione insolently, raking over her. "Especially since he's brought his _girlfriend_ along?"

"Don't," Hermione whispered as Draco opened his mouth angrily, stepping towards the guard. "They're not worth it." Anyone in charge of a prisoner could revoke their rights to have visitors at any point, for any reason, and Hermione could feel her heart speed up in panic at the thought of losing her chance. The younger Malfoy clamped his jaw shut audibly and ground his heels into the stone as they strode through the door, hearing it creak shut behind them. As the latch _clicked _into place, Hermione murmured an Absorption Charm on the door. The heavy wood would swallow their voices, making anyone beyond deaf as well as blind.

"Wandless magic, Granger?" Draco murmured.

"A side-benefit of catching my eye," his father said from across the small cell. Draco turned eagerly towards the older man, taking in the unflattering dirty grey of the prisoners' robes and the glinting stubble lining his usually smooth face, trying to measure his father's state without asking irrelevant questions.

But Lucius' storm-colored eyes were irrevocably settled on his classmate, and it was clear she filled his whole world. A gentle smile lifted the corners of his mouth as she met his gaze. "Or so I would like to believe."

"In part," she granted in a whisper, and then she was moving towards him, meeting him in the middle of the room, the thick chain running from one wrist to fasten him to the wall stretched as far as it could go. Her fingertips brushed over his face, reacquainting themselves with the high cheekbones, the perfect nose, the thin mouth, accustoming her skin to the wholly out-of-character scratchiness born of ten days without a razor. Draco found he could not turn away from the scene, fascinated as he watched a girl he had fought with for five years eagerly touch his father in a way that would bring a sneer to his mother's face.

Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath as his hands closed over her elbows, embrace impossible with his arms cuffed together less than a foot apart. "Lucius..." she whispered, and hated the trembling in her voice, the weakness of need that it betrayed.

"Hermione, don't-" he started to say, and his son hurried to turn away as the bold Gryffindor stood on tiptoe, wrapping her fingers in the blond hair and pulling his mouth down to meet hers.

Lucius' grip on her tightened as his tongue darted out, requesting and gaining entry to her mouth, body frustrated as hands and lips remained their only points of contact. He could feel her fingers clenching and releasing on the back of his head as the sickening worry of the past week and a half and fear for the future flowed between them, shared in a kiss at once savage and tender, pliant and unyielding.

When they broke their kiss to breathe, faces barely parted, exhales caressing each other, she was murmuring brokenly, "I'm so sorry, Lucius. It's my fault – I couldn't get Harry to believe me, that it was a trick instead of reality. You know he never let Professor Snape teach him how to properly close his mind and he was so convinced that Sirius...I couldn't..." Tears stood bright in her eyes and Lucius clumsily lifted his bound hands to cup her face, cold metal grazing the underside of her jaw as his strong thumbs pushed away the salt water.

"It is _not_ your fault. I have long lost my stomach for killing, Hermione. I do wish that Potter had not been so foolish in regards to Severus' teaching – you have lost a powerful wizard in Sirius Black – but that is neither here nor there. The instant Potter stepped into the Dark Lord's trap, this was almost inevitable. I was never going to kill him or anyone else who appeared in the Ministry that night."

"Father?" The uncertain crack in his son's voice reminded the lovers that they were not alone in the small cell, that Lucius could not sink to his cot and wrap his arms around the young woman who had occupied his every waking moment and many of his dreams for months, no matter how much he wished to do so.

Hermione colored instantly as she withdrew, unable to believe she had so swiftly forgotten her long-time rival's presence, her hands catching in the soiled hair as she pulled away, cherishing the lingering touch of Lucius' long fingers as he straightened and turned to face his heir. Now was not the time and the place for emotional breakdowns. That would come later.

"Draco. I'm glad you have come – and grateful for the cover story that allowed you to bring Hermione with you."

The son inclined his head, the facade of calm perfected as a member of wizarding society's upper echelons dropping into place as his thoughts threatened to spin entirely out of control. He had been growing away from the older man steadily since his first ride on the Hogwarts Express, and over the past year, since the Dark Lord's return, he had barely seen his father at all. But this brief exchange – added to his sire's unfathomable attraction to the Brain of Gryffindor – made it clear that he knew almost nothing of the man before him. He was, in essence, a stranger.

And it unsettled the teen enormously.

"You have questions," Lucius stated as Hermione sank onto the filthy cot that the Aurors passed off as a bed, wandlessly Enlarging a small comb she had tucked into her pocket.

The boy took a deep breath, and nodded. His cool face had often kept his classmates at bay, but he knew better than to assume his father would be fooled. Lucius had taught it to him.

The older wizard gestured to a tiny table that was, if possible, more fragile than the mouldering chair in the corner. "Set up your chessboard, and I will answer what I can."

Father and son faced each other across the small square of black-and-white in their time-honored method of relaxation, quiet voices rising and falling in the small cell as Hermione kneeled behind her lover on the cot, patiently untangling the snarls ten days in prison had wrought in the fine strands.

888

"When, exactly, did you stop believing in him?" Draco asked, gesturing subtly to Hermione, indicating she should move her knight.

"No cheating, Draco," Lucius ordered – but the tolerant smile on his lips betrayed him as he captured the small hand fluttering indecisively over her side of the board. Father and son were both fascinated that a mind the likes of Hermione Granger's simply seemed incapable of grasping chess strategy. This was their second visit, and after the first long game the Malfoys had played, Hermione had lost three times in quick succession and was rapidly approaching the fourth.

"If he can't help me, you should be handicapped in some way," she groused, bringing up her other hand to lift the knight her _faux_ boyfriend had pointed to, unable to fathom what he might want her to do with it. The obvious move was for Lucius' bishop, but something told her that her lover had deliberately placed it there for her to pounce on, trusting her to take the easy move. Slytherins. They thought in circles.

"Some would consider chains of iron a significant handicap," Lucius replied dryly, and in spite of his situation, the three laughed as he rattled them melodramatically. As Hermione continued to brood over the knight's possible moves, the elder Malofy's lighter grey eyes locked on those of his son.

"I would say when he returned, ironically enough." His mouth twitched, but there was no mirth in it. "I had very poor timing. My Mark had been growing more distinct for months and I was...intrigued. Excited, perhaps, that I could finally suspend my mask of civility towards the incompetents at the Ministry and that biased, meddlesome old man running Hogwarts..." The patriarch shook his head. "I was a fool. I managed to make myself forget that thirteen years had passed since there was any activity from my brethren, and that the intervening years had merged the facade I crafted to save you and your mother so thoroughly with reality that I could not now distinguish them. I still have no use for either the Ministry's current administration or Dumbledore, but I discovered that I also no longer hold to the badly-skewed ideals of my youth."

He swallowed, and Draco felt his breath catch as he saw pain – real and undiluted, rush his father's eyes. "When I responded to the burning of my arm, I materialized in a graveyard. Our Master has always possessed a flare for the dramatic, so his use of this particular symbolism for his re-birth hardly fazed me. If anything, it was to be expected."

"But on the ground..." and the younger man was horrified to hear his father's modulated tones breaking, "on the ground was Amos Diggory's son. No more than three years older than you, training to be a fine wizard...seventeen years old, impeccable pureblood lineage and dead at my Master's feet. Simply because he was _there_." Lucius set his jaw, looking older than Draco had ever seen him. "And I knew then that the rest of my service was condemned to be lies – I genuinely despise Albus Dumbledore and could not turn to him, he would never believe me – and I could not turn away from the Master I had already responded to. The risk to you and to Narcissa would have been too great."

"_Diggory_ changed your mind?"

"No. _You_ did. In that instant, I knew that should it be deemed necessary, the Dark Lord would have no trouble turning his wand and dispatching of you, throwing away all the potential that you hold." He fell silent for an instant and then, in a subdued voice very unlike the carelessly arrogant one that his son had tried so hard to imitate for years, he continued. "When you have children, the knowledge that the next generation is the future of your world becomes very, very real. And whether it is your child, their friends, or even their enemies, who end up in power, the world still turns, we all get older, and we must provide for those who come after. Our Master has no plans for those who come after – precisely because he does not intend for there to be one. Your whole generation will be laid waste. As much as I loathe who Harry Potter fights for, he, too, is someones son and will be someones father. As you will be."

Hermione quietly moved her knight up to endanger Lucius' queen. He blinked down at the game, squeezing her hand gently. "Are you sure you don't want that lovely bishop?" he asked lightly, pulling all of them back from the dismal topic.

"Now I am," she replied, pleased with herself for not falling for his gambit.

"Shame," he drawled, and his other bishop came from nowhere to swoop on her knight. "At least then you would have done something useful with it."

"You-!"

"Psychology, my love, plays a large part in this game...and...yes – I think it will be mate in three."

888

"-and I never want to see either you or that filthy piece of Mudblood trash you dare to call a paramour again!" Lucius' enraged voice bounced off the stone, followed by the pattering sound of chess pieces smashing against cell walls as the couple darted out, slamming the door behind them and panting in feigned distress, Draco's cheeks flushed and Hermione summoning tears for the Death Eater's behavior.

Pausing only to snatch their wands from the half-pitying, half-amused guards, the couple sprinted down the corridor, waiting until they were in the vacant Apparition Chamber to exchange furtive smiles.

"Third visit and he's already banished us from sight. I wonder what he'll do when we return next week?" Draco wondered casually.

"Kiss me, impart fatherly advice to you and trounce me in chess like always, I suppose," she replied quietly, her tone more lighthearted than she felt. She found her ally's hand and squeezed it. "See you Monday."

His half-smile was the last thing she saw as she Disapparated.

888

Monday morning, as she prepared to Disapparate from her parents' house (the Weasleys had rescinded their offer for her to stay with them over the summer after Rita Skeeter had splayed a large photograph of Draco and Hermione holding hands in front of an appropriately-enraged Lucius on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_), the large eagle-owl owned by the Malfoys swooped through her open bedroom window.

She tore open the seal, fear congealing in her gut. Draco had never before sent her an owl – their relationship was for display only, and real correspondence via the written word was entirely too risky. Had they convicted Lucius? Unlikely. They hadn't yet called the key witnesses – she was one, although her 'intimacy' with Draco was probably grounds for her dismissal as a biased party...

_There's a complication. Come to the Manor as soon as you get this. __Apparate__ outside the gates – __Mum'll__ go spare if she sees you in the house_. The Weasleys weren't the only ones taking their cover story badly. Hermione glanced at the glossy photograph Draco had provided as reference, memorized the Malfoy seal on the black iron gates, shut her eyes, blotting out all fears of what the 'complication' might be, and felt the uncomfortable pressure of moving through magically-folded space.

"What happened?" The words were off her tongue as she Apparated to see Draco standing right in front of her, pale face whiter than usual.

"They've moved the trial date," he bit out without preamble. "It's going to be in September."

_When we're back at Hogwarts. No..._

"And they've transferred him back to Azkaban. Which means that his visitors are limited to Mum and me. Only direct family are allowed in."

Hermione was barely aware of the tall boy's arms catching her as her legs gave way without warning. Distressing as it had been to watch her proud lover kept dirty and burdened by his heavy chains, visiting him in the cell under Draco's ever-watchful eye, Hermione could not deny that these hours had been the high points of her week. There had been a freedom in their interaction there, a private world composed only of the three of them.

Now this peaceable interim reality had been moved irrevocably beyond her reach. The trial would resume when she couldn't be present, the verdict announced before the uncaring world. Their time had, abruptly, run out.

"We _will_ find a way, Hermione," Draco was whispering. "Don't worry – you know my father is brilliant. Don't give up..."

888

"Do something about your son's dangerous obsession before our Master solves the problem for you," Bellatrix told her sister flatly. Narcissa froze mid-action, teapot forgotten in her hand.

"I beg your pardon?" the youngest daughter of Orion Black contrived to look puzzled.

Bellatrix threw her a disgusted look and planted the _Prophet_ on the sitting room table. Narcissa ground her teeth. Her son again, ridiculously flaunting his father's Mudblood lover – this time sharing a lovely scoop of Fortescue's Triple-Berry Surprise as they smiled for the camera.

"_This_ has been appearing in the papers for a month now. Convince Draco it's time to give up his game with a piece of forbidden fruit – pass it off to our Master as the hotblooded folly of youth, combined with some tripe about grieving for Lucius – and your family might be forgiven." Bellatrix's eyes were more hooded than usual as she sighed. "I would not fancy seeing my only nephew's body gracing the front page under the Dark Mark."

888

"Ms. Skeeter, I'm so pleased you could grant me this interview," Narcissa lied graciously, ushering the bundle of journalistic vitriol in loud magenta robes into her sitting room. The willowy hostess reflected that certain colors ought simply not be allowed to hang in a wardrobe – then again, Rita Skeeter's unique choice of dress certainly made her easier to avoid in a crowd.

"Mrs. Malfoy, I'm thrilled to have received your invitation. Your husband's choice of...extracurricular activities has been, unfortunately, quite well documented, both in the first rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and now, after the Ministry break-in and subsequent destruction of extremely valuable property. But the woman's side of the story is, as usual, tragically under-told. Tell me: what are some of the pressures you've been under as the wife of a practically convicted Death Eater? How did you meet him? Was yours an arranged marriage, or would you say that the last twenty years has changed a man you fell in love with? And what do you think of your son's revolutionary attachment to a Muggleborn? Do you share his enthusiasm for embracing a new era of cooperation between old and new societies?"

The woman's questions were fired off with a speed and precision born of many years of practice, and Narcissa carefully concealed her smirk – Skeeter would never hear the damning answers to the first question, or the deeply personal details of the next two. Their Master was already livid with her husband for his failure to retrieve the prophecy, and the blond witch intended to give the reporter a story that would blow any questions regarding the pureblood wife and her son's loyalties out of the minds of their readers. Much as it offended her sensibilities to parade her own life in front of the public eye, her sister's point had been well-taken. A little censure, a few whispers as to her husband's tastes in women, were preferable to the loss of husband and son and possibly her own life. Lucius would be sacrificed – he was a lamb being led to the chopping block anyway – and Narcissa and Draco could escape unscathed from both sides.

"Well, Ms. Skeeter – tea?" After they had settled her black tea with three lumps of sugar, Narcissa carefully affected a state of exhaustion – knowing that the early afternoon light streaming through the pale yellow curtains would add greatly to her air of faint illness. "After whole-heartedly supporting Draco – true love is so rarely found now, and that's such a shame, don't you think? – imagine my surprise when I discovered that my dear son is not in love with Hermione Granger after all. He's merely carrying out one more order from his father!"

Skeeter frowned, not following and Narcissa heaved a long sigh. "Apparently, the girl has been _Lucius'_ lover." Narcissa saw shock spark in Skeeter's eyes as all the words connected in her brain, and the aristocrat smothered her smile to continue. "He commanded Draco to pretend with her so that he could have her brought to him without raising suspicion! After all these years, to take up with a girl our son's age..." As the slender woman feigned tears for her callous husband's actions, the reporter sat stock-still on the couch, almost forgetting to breathe.

A pureblood-Muggle-born, Slytherin-Gryffindor, father-son triangle. Not to mention the more than twenty-year age difference between Lucius Malfoy and the witch in question...and the crowning fact that he was heralded as the Dark Lord's right-hand man and she was one of the Boy Who Lived's best friends. The headlines were too easy_: Opposite sides of a pitched battle in the Department of Mysteries...__**or had they been?**_

The _Daily Prophet _hadn't carried such luridly sensational news in her lifetime. Skeeter patted the other woman's back, too deep in thought to notice Narcissa wincing away from her heavy-handedness.

The Granger girl's name would be dragged through all the metaphorical mud the wizarding world could sling. And she, Rita Skeeter, was going to make a _fortune_.

"You poor dear," she murmured, pulling a contrived expression of sympathy onto her face while scrambling for a hideous handkerchief that matched the color of her robes. "This must have come as quite a blow to you..."

888

"Oh. My. God." Fred's unusually serious voice was the first thing Harry and Ron heard as they tumbled into the Burrow's kitchen for their breakfast. Ron flicked a glance at his older brother, eyes hardening as he took in Fred's pale features tucked behind the _Daily Prophet_.

"If it's more about Hermione and ferret-face, I may vomit," Ron snapped repressively, finding his appetite for his mother's excellent cooking abruptly dimmed. The article in the _Prophet_ revealing the relationship between the poster-boy for pureblood supremacy and Gryffindor's leading Muggle-born lioness had been published the morning after Hogwarts had closed for the year, and the youngest son of Arthur Weasley still found himself reeling from the photos – new ones popping from the glossy pages of _Witch Weekly_ every Sunday – that confirmed the romantic inclinations of his best friend and arch-rival. His mother had wanted to bring Hermione to the Burrow anyway, partially to determine whether the intelligent girl had been bewitched, but Ron and Harry had flatly refused to see her.

"Lucius Malfoy is one of the causes of Sirius' death," Harry had expressed bitterly the last time Molly had gently tried to broach the subject. "I've heard they're going to authorize the Dementor's Kiss and I can't think of a single wizard who deserves it more. If Hermione has decided to spend her time with his son, she can shack up at their Manor."

Harry's hard tone had permanently closed the matter, and both the Boy Who Lived and his sidekick had taken to averting their eyes when the morning edition arrived by owl, not wanting to sink their nails into a gaping wound.

"It is. And I think I'm going to," George said, setting his fork down as he read with his twin, his skin faintly green.

"What is it?" Morbid curiosity prompted Harry to lean in, examining the front page. He had never seen anything make the irrepressible duo look so ill. His jade eyes skimmed a few lines, and, like the twins, his face drained completely of color as he staggered away from the table, one hand clapped over his mouth as if forcibly restraining himself from gagging.

"Harry?" Ron said, alarmed as he moved to his best friend's side.

"D'you think it's true?" Fred muttered, laying the paper flat on the table so all could see. The top image was one of Hermione and Draco Malfoy, strolling through Muggle London hand-in-hand, bright smiles captured by the cameras – another sickeningly sweet moment in a long string of photographs of the _Prophet's_ newest darlings.

The photo underneath was one that had gone previously unprinted, a black-and-white from the first day of Lucius Malfoy's trial. Someone had caught a moment in the milling courtroom with the younger Malfoy and their friend standing in front of the accused. As they watched, Hermione's hand lifted slightly and pressed against the air in front of the proud man, an invisible barrier keeping her from touching him. The pureblood's fingers twitched under his bonds, as if wishing to reciprocate her gesture.

There was no denying the intensity of both parties as they gazed at one another.

The headline underneath it blared: **Darling Couple a Daring Cover-Up?**

888

"Hey Granger – is it true?" Seamus Finnegan's voice cut through the press of bodies at Platform 9 and ¾, and Hermione resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands as, _en __masse_, parents and children stilled, eyes shooting to the face they recognized as well as Harry's after seeing it in the _Prophet _everyday for the past two months. There was a collective withdrawal from the scorned Gryffindor witch now widely perceived as a traitor – and one with loose morals at that.

"Did you really sleep with Lucius Malfoy?"

Muttering swelled in the beats of silence following Seamus' question, and though the young woman did not turn away, nothing could keep a rich blush from staining her face.

"What's it like to screw a Death Eater?" jeered a Ravenclaw she barely recognized.

"Does he call you 'Mudblood' in bed?" laughed Pansy Parkinson. "I always wondered if that would be a turn on for you, Granger. Is it?"

A jet of bright yellow light ploughed into her chest, knocking her backwards, and Draco Malfoy stepped up behind the girl who had proven to be his only friend and confidant for the long weeks of summer. Absolute quiet descended once more around the Hogwarts Express, the busy terminal unnatural in its complete stillness. His cold grey eyes swept the crowd in a movement that consciously mimicked his father's as he draped one arm casually around the slender Gryffindor's shoulders. She looked up at him gratefully, deliberately cementing this image in the minds of their hundreds of observers as one of a damsel looking to her rescuer.

"No one uses that word around me or my girlfriend," he told Pansy and her clique of Slytherin hangers-on coldly. "As for you," his lip curled in sincere disdain as he glared at the tight knot of Gryffindors who comprised Hermione's class, her two former best friends amongst them. "The Ministry has been telling lies for a year through the _Daily Prophet_. As the target of most of these falsehoods, I would have expected especially you, Potter, to not be so quick to believe everything you read."

There was a swift re-arrangement of faces as the crowd took in the Malfoy heir's harsh but entirely honest appraisal of their government. The Ministry's rapid back-pedaling after the appearance of Voldemort in the heart of their operations had left many witches and wizards distinctly nervous. Draco knew their failing reputation would lend credence to his assertion that they were once again simply trying to stir up trouble. "And Skeeter has always hated Hermione," he said in a quieter voice, eyes locked on still-mutinous blue and green gazes. "Think of what you know of my father, Potter, Weasley, and tell me if you can imagine him laying a hand on a Muggle-born. Especially one known for spending her time with you."

Their furious features faltered only very slightly, but it was enough. Seeds of doubt had been planted, and Draco's continued solicitous treatment of the young witch who had been so celebrated as a hero in the Department of Mysteries was enough to bring the station back to life, parents installing their children on the train, bidding them to write often and do their best.

888

**Trial to Resume: Newly-Appointed Minister Promises Maximum Punishment upon Conviction**

Hermione and Draco looked at each other from where they sat ensconced at one end of Gryffindor's table and reached over the rough tabletop to grasp hands, both mouths pressed together in terse lines that betrayed their mutual grief.

"They'll kill him," Draco murmured, feeling his throat close around the words, making them clipped. Hermione could only nod her agreement, unable to speak, unable to feel. Numbness stole through her, blessing her nerves and emotions with blunted reactions, knowing that if the full force broke over her it would come in brutal waves of tears and screams.

Both were unaware of Harry Potter's eyes tracking them, almost obsessively, from farther down the table. He had made it his habit to observe them together over the past three weeks, to the point of following his former friend. The lascivious rumors in the _Prophet_ and other magazines had not abated following Rita Skeeter's slanderous article that summer, with more witches and wizards than Hermione knew existed willing to come forward and testify that they had seen the young witch and her older lover in any number of places in the months leading up to his incarceration.

While Harry did not believe most of them, he had found himself incapable of accepting Hermione's relationship with the son – no matter that they played the part perfectly. Ron was all-too-willing to push aside the unwelcome thought of the witch he had once fostered hopes of dating being involved with the known Death Eater. They hated the younger generation almost as much as the elder, but although he was a bully, his side in the war had yet to be determined. Better the spoiled child than the cold man Harry had seen at Voldemort's resurrection.

But try as he might, the first – and only – photograph to appear in the _Daily Prophet_ of Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Granger seemed branded onto his eyelids. The searing quality of their glance, the intimacy even in a crowded space...these were not the signs of a mutual disdain and lethal hatred.

And now she was reduced to speechlessness, despair wrapping the duo as they clung to each other – not as a couple but as survivors of a sinking ship desperately seizing what they could.

Much as he wished, for the first time in his life, to believe Draco Malfoy, the young hero simply could not.

888

Hermione tore into Draco's room in a whirlwind of golden-brown tresses, clutching a piece of official-looking parchment that looked suspiciously like the one that had just been dropped on his own duvet.

"Have you-" he started.

"I've been subpoenaed," she panted, eyes huge. Draco brought one hand to run down his face in a gesture of exhaustion borrowed from men many times his years. He wordlessly handed her his own summons to appear before the Wizengamot in four days' time.

"It appears that someone wants to check on our little charade," he muttered as she skimmed it.

Her eyes were wild when she lifted them again. "They'll use Veritiserum – even the most carefully crafted lies cannot make it through the drug. Lucius-"

"My father is already a dead man," the younger blond cut her off with a ruthlessness that shocked her with its clarity. She knew how much Draco loved his father, but the grey eyes had rapidly shifted as he gazed at her, his Slytherin-trained sense of planning replacing emotion. "It's _you _we've got to do something about."

As she blinked, he snorted in one of his now-rare displays of impatience with her. "Put that raved-about mind to use, Hermione. My father has been a Death Eater for longer than either of us have been living. We have not one shred of evidence that he has changed his mind – merely his word, which, although we both know it to be true, the Wizengamot cannot trust." His fingers ran quickly through the fine stands of his hair. "You can be sentenced to Azkaban for aiding and abetting a criminal, and frankly, given our current political atmosphere, they might do worse. Everyone in power now lived through the Dark Lord's last rise, and they will be less inclined than ever to be merciful – or just."

Hermione paled, and nodded. "And your own place in the scheme?"

"As his son, the defense lawyer will have the easiest time getting me a pardon. 'Grew up in a twisted environment...' 'What wouldn't a son do for his father?' That's easy. Family is always a weak point and, frankly, the fact that I am still under-age will be to my advantage."

"So..." Hermione blew a long sigh as her brain finally shifted into gear again, over-riding panic. "How do we disappear?"

Draco arched an eyebrow at her. "Who?"

"You, me and your father." She tilted her head at him, her face as impassive as his own. "Unless, of course, you wish to remain behind to face the consequences on your own?"

"I'll pass on that significant pleasure," he rejoined. "We'll have a very narrow window of opportunity – probably inside the Ministry itself..."

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Draco rubbed his hands surreptitiously on his robes, hating the feeling of sweat pooling there as he waited. His testimony was scheduled to take place following Hermione, and he was seated separately from the spectators and criminal court on the opposite wall, behind the chair of the accused.

The lithe Gryffindor he'd come to know had taken her place in the witness box and gazed over the crowd calmly. Mutters of scorn and whispers of encouragement betrayed who amongst the avid watchers had bought into Skeeter's poisonous story revealing her relationship with Lucius. Draco was impressed in spite of himself – for a girl who had always looked out on the world with her heart in her eyes, she was remarkably composed. Perhaps another side effect of spending time with Slytherins.

In a calculated movement, she turned her head and caught his gaze, one half of her mouth curving upwards. He returned the gesture, and another wave of murmurs rippled through the court, both of them and their behavior plainly on display.

The gavel fell, and with it, silence.

"Bring in the accused." The ringing voice was so different than Fudge's prior fatigue that Draco shivered as he gazed at the lion-maned man who had previously been the prosecuting attorney and now held the highest office in the wizarding world. His stomach tightened and he clenched his jaw to fight a wave of nausea.

Draco tensed as the Dementors emerged with Lucius. He could see Hermione's eyes widen involuntarily, saw her swallow forcibly the cry of distress that threatened to come ripping out of her at his haggard appearance. Although he had clearly been allowed a razor and a change of robes, the lustrous hair that Draco had inherited was matted and filthy, and the previously-austere cheekbones were now skeletal. Lucius' skin was beginning to take on the faint yellow that came with the thin diet of the prison coupled with the constant presence of the Azkaban guards.

The elder Malfoy lifted his head, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other as the Dementors once again faded back, clearing his mind for this day's abuse-

-he stopped moving. He was two feet from his chair when his eyes locked on the woman they had brought against him today, and seeing her here cracked the glaze of dignity he had struggled to maintain. For a moment, he could only stare at her, absorbing her beauty as she steadily regarded him in turn.

The general noise level was rising again at this development, and Draco could see his mother glaring furiously at Lucius and Hermione as they continued to study one another in front of more than a thousand of her peers. An uncharitable spurt of satisfaction filled the boy at the ugliness twisting Narcissa's classically beautiful features. He had no doubt as to who had told Rita Skeeter about Hermione's unlikely meetings with his father, and had not forgiven his mother her cruelty in exposing them all to danger and ridicule.

The sound of voices penetrated Lucius' fog and he gave the Gryffindor on the stand a credible sneer as he continued towards his chair. Behind him, Draco tensed, hand slipping into his pocket for his wand. His time was growing very, very short-

-Lucius' pale, slightly unsteady hands brushed the edges of his seat, and as Draco watched the tremor shoot through them, a motion so shameful in a man so rigidly controlled all of his life, rage whitened the son's vision until he thought he would gladly _Avada__Kedavra_the entire room.

His father moved so slowly, almost as if he knew what they were doing, giving them enough time to see every minuscule movement of his gaunt frame-

"_Silencio__!"_ Draco bellowed, sweeping his wand in a modified motion to cast the entire court into noiselessness. He smirked. He was now the only one capable of casting spells verbally – and while there were plenty of Aurors who could cast without words, no one would be able to give mass orders. The confusion would accomplish what he never could hope to alone. His _"Impedimenta!" _felled Kingsley Shacklebolt, undoubtedly the quickest wizard on the uptake, and the young man hastily fired a Stunning spell that narrowly missed the new Minister and slammed into his Undersecretary, still the unpopular Doloros Umbridge, sending her flying.

The room was instantly ablaze with colors, protective and offensive spells filling the space with fractures of light like prisms in the sun. They were fighting each other to get to him, and the blond smiled grimly as more than one of his enemies collapsed from so-called friendly fire. Draco dimly saw Hermione cast her silent _Accio_ from the witness stand, saw his father jerk towards her, away from the chair before the magical contraption could bind him. Lucius stumbled, lifted his head, saw the determined face of his beloved, and immediately righted himself, reading her intent and ducking towards her in the storm. Draco saw her reach, catch Lucius' hand-

-and Vanish. The Portkey had been activated, and the younger Malfoy's mouth curved almost ferally as he cast a wide-range Jelly Legs Jinx, causing the nearest dozen people to go wobbly at the knees, plunging his free hand into his own pocket. As his fingertips brushed the watch, the familiar jerking feeling from behind his navel seized him and he was traveling.

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"Draco. Good. Ve vere hoping you vould arrive safely," a peculiarly familiar voice was his first greeting as Draco struggled to untangle himself from the chair that had been occupying the same square of floor as his landing body.

"Viktor Krum?" he said incredulously as he straightened his robes, automatically smoothing them into place. The Quidditch player smiled easily.

"Yes. Our friend Hermione wrote me that she required immediate assistance."

"_You_ sent the Portkeys?"

"Off course," Viktor replied, and started for the sitting room door, gesturing for the former Hogwarts student to follow him. "They are in the kitchen." He paused as Draco passed him in the doorway, a peculiar expression of curiosity and faint distaste on his well-known face. "It is none off my business, but how did your father and Hermione-"

The Slytherin swiftly shook his head, having long ago decided he had no desire to ever know the answer to that question himself. "In regards to that, I think it's better not to ask. I don't think they'd tell you even if you did."

"Ah."

"I know it takes some getting used to," Draco told him. "In fact, I'm still not used to it. But I will be in time. She grows on you, you know."

The ex-Triwizard Champion raised both thick eyebrows and the blond laughed, surprised by the genuine ring to the sound. "I guess you would, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed."

They entered the sunny little kitchen to see Lucius and Hermione seated next to one another, heads bent together so closely that the straight blond strands tumbled into the curly brown, merging in a shifting waterfall of gold and amber. In the instant before they registered their audience, Draco watched his father reach to twine his fingers with Hermione's, his classmate returning the squeeze with obvious affection as she smiled at him.

Viktor cleared his throat as the two stepped into the room. The seated pair jumped faintly, looking slightly guilty as their private moment was interrupted. Draco helped himself to fresh green grapes whose taut skins promised juicy sourness within, a soft cheese he couldn't identify and a long sausage before joining the duo.

"What now?" he asked after swallowing his first grape.

"We're staying," Hermione said quietly. "At least for now. We can use Polyjuice and attend school at Durmstrang – Karkaroff owes Lucius a favor. Something about hiding from the Dark Lord after his resurrection."

Draco stared at her, cheese forgotten on his fork, fighting an absurd desire to burst into hysterical laughter. She had pulled her illicit lover from the depths of the Ministry of Magic and his trial less than an hour before, set out to live an entirely new life with less than a week's planning – and Hermione Granger had already figured out her academics. A ridiculous sense of relief bubbled within him. It was nice to know, in a life that had been utterly wrecked over the past several months, that some things _never_ changed.

His father must have been watching the display on Draco's face, for Lucius smirked as he said, "I agree with Hermione – you must get your degree. And as returning to Hogwarts, or to Britain, for that matter, has now become impossible, Durmstrang is an admirable second choice."

"Didn't you want me to go there to begin with?" the younger Slytherin queried, vaguely recalling a long-past argument between his parents.

"I did. Especially with the dangers that the world faces now...Durmstrang's education offers a few subjects that Hogwarts should adopt. Dumbledore seems to be convinced that he can win the war without dirtying his hands."

"He can." This came from Hermione, and all three men turned towards the girl, surprised by the bitterness loading her voice. "He just has Harry sully his."

Silence fell at this unexpected condemnation from one of Dumbledore's favored pride.

Draco chewed his sausage, caught Hermione's eye when she turned away from his father, and shrugged. Durmstrang. It was as good a plan as any. He hadn't thought past getting them all out of England, and there was no denying that they needed their final two years of schooling if they were going to go on to be professionals of any kind.

"What will you do, Father?" Draco turned to the elder wizard with a frown.

"First? Shower," Lucius replied, rising with a final press on Hermione's hand, reluctantly releasing it as he kissed her forehead. "And secondly...in spite of the fact that I have spent most of my life playing the rich aristocrat, I took Outstanding NEWTs in Charms, Herbology and Transfiguration. I will seek some kind of gainful employment – preferably one that will not attract too much interest or attention."

After spending a lifetime striding in his father's wake through the Ministry and the homes of other purebloods, observing how hastily lesser witches and wizards moved aside to accommodate Lucius' passing, his son could merely stare at him. His father seek anonymity? The sun might as well rise in the west.

"I am no longer that man, Draco," Lucius told him gently, and two pairs of grey eyes, shades apart, held one another until some kind of understanding flashed between them. Then Lucius' gaze travelled to Hermione, who was sitting in the glow of the mid-morning sun, light rimming her tresses like a halo. Peace spread its wings in his heart, a pure contentment that the older wizard had not experienced since his early childhood. He had everything his heart desired.

"It's time to start over."

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A/N: As usual, please read, review and throw any requests my way!

Shogi: You are such a wonderful reviewer! I'm so tickled that you like my little side trips. Severus-James? Now...that's a combination I have never thought about...good challenge! I look forward to coming up with a good story around it!

Demmons1399: Thank you! I agree - Fleur always seemed a bit too girly, but then, I think Bill and Fleur would look like a movie-star couple, so maybe that's what he wanted. I'm glad you liked this!

Beth5572: Thanks for reading this one as well!


	7. A World that Might Have Been

Disclaimer: As usual, not mine, simply borrowed, much to my regret.

A/N: This pairing was requested ages ago by Alia. My first thought for this was one that went completely the other way, featuring a Dark Hermione and a destroyed Britain. I may still write that fic and post it – but this one derailed me, simply because I haven't read a Voldemort-Hermione piece with this theme. I hope you all enjoy it!

A World that Might Have Been

"Playing for Hyde Park's Little League this season are Potter, Weasley, Weasley, Bagman, Crouch, Diggory aaaaannnd Snape!" The fluttering sky-blue robes of the players exploding into formation over the field shifted patterns under the gigantic trees providing shade for the onlookers, dappled sunlight and shadow playing over features narrowed in concentration, children aged eight to eleven intent on their game as only the young could be.

The rich, blood-red uniforms of the Wiltshire Little League spurred forward from their side of the pitch to the thundering applause of the opposite stands. Hermione Peverell shook her head and smiled, watching Lucius Malfoy and his brother-in-law Rodolphus Lestrange loudly calling encouragement to their sons in crimson, both slated to enter Hogwarts next month. Next to them, Augustus Rookwood and Walden Macnair had engaged in good-natured heckling with James Potter and Arthur Weasley, the latter two both staunch supporters of their children in blue. The smile deepened as she watched most of the wives cast a cursory glance at the sky, note that the balls had not yet been released, and return to their chat, Narcissa picking her way over to stand with Molly Weasley and the blond's black-haired older sister.

"This summer's final match is being refereed by Hogwarts' own flying instructor, Madam Hooch!"

As Hermione watched the slender, business-like witch with short, spiky hair and yellow eyes that resembled a hawk's more than a human's, march laughing onto the field with a large box tucked under her arm, the aging witch experienced a moment of dizzying memory. How many times had she observed this? How many games against Slytherin and Gryffindor had begun exactly this way? In spite of the years that had passed since then, Madam Hooch's movements transported her back – or was it forward? – to a world that no longer existed.

A world that had cast the pall of bloodshed over her life and that of everyone she loved. A time of war, fear and division. An epoch where every second child possessed thestral-sight, and no one had escaped the pain and panic of the Dark Mark, even those who cast it against the stars that damnation's green so gruesomely parodied.

Shaken by the strength of her recall, Hermione's amber eyes sought and found the lithe shape of her husband, sitting anxiously on a bench below his players, the coach already assessing their airborne performance. The years had not added a pound of weight to his spare frame, nor lessened the incisiveness of his gaze or mind.

Nevertheless, he was not recognizable as the man she had first met, and a shiver of gratitude made its way up her spine.

As the crate was kicked open, the Snitch, revenge-laden Bludgers and Quaffle tossed into play, he lifted his inky gaze to find her, the same as every game, as if she were his good-luck charm. Scarlet did not plague these orbs, and the face was still as handsome in its severe way as it had been when he had been twenty-two, crowned by thick, jet-black hair now just beginning to streak with grey.

There was no hint of the snake-slit nostrils, the livid vermilion orbs, the skin that possessed a waxen sheen – a creature only partially human, soul distorted by being split seven ways. The only place that man dwelled in this version of time was in her nightmares – though those had come less and less frequently over the years as she had gently turned the course of history off track, water first dribbling to make a tiny stream, then a gentle creek, and finally flooding into a river, forcing the universe to diverge.

She was Albus Dumbledore's last, desperate decision, and his final proof of his life-long declarations.

"_But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic." _

Hermione herself had proven the self-styled lord's challenge false years before he would have issued it. She recalled all-too-clearly her nervousness at meeting him for the first time, at entering Borigin and Burke's, a place in Knockturn Alley where she would undoubtedly _never _be welcome, no matter whose world she inhabited.

_The young man behind the counter was deeply ensconced in reading, his eyes scanning the page so swiftly it looked as if he were devouring it. Eighteen-year-old Hermione Granger paused in the dimly-lit doorway, staring at the adversary of her life, the man who had hovered over her, a constant threat to her very existence, since she had fallen into the Devil's Snare._

_A man she had been sent to destroy. A wizard she _needed _to._ _With a deep breath, she stepped into the store. _

_He glanced up, raked his dark eyes over her, and stood, leaving his book creased open to his place. "How can I help you?" he asked politely, gliding forward with the unnatural grace that would survive his body's destruction and renewal._

_Hermione tilted her head at him and gave him a quiet smile, spinning the lie they had crafted smoothly from her practiced lips. "I'm a descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw's and I've heard that one of the owners of this shop is in the market for items belonging to the founders of Hogwarts. I was wondering if you have already located some of them, and if not, might I hire your services?"_

_Courtesy vanished to be replaced by something like hunger in the young man's face, a terrible, twisted longing that repelled and unexpectedly awakened sympathy in the young witch at the same time. The naked expression of need stoking the fire in the black eyes was unsettling, and Hermione remembered what Harry had told her – Hogwarts had been Riddle's only true home. Like a child seeking relics from ashes, he grabbed hold of anything that represented the happiest part of his life._

So it had been with genuine enthusiasm that Tom Riddle had invited Hermione out to dinner. Their quest for Ravenclaw's known remaining heirlooms: her Goblin-cast diadem, her formidable Rowen staff and her personal letter-box containing her private correspondence with Salazar Slytherin had taken them the better part of two years. Those two years had been, without a doubt, the best of Hermione's life thus far. Free of the threat of the very man she had come to view as a partner, spending their days locked in research interrupted by frequent Apparitions to foreign lands to conduct their searches – many of them dead-ends, but none of them wasted, had been like living in a fairytale.

For the first six months, he had maintained his aloof purity, answering little in response to queries about his life, but as their proximity brought about the kind of comfort he had never before experienced with another human being, Riddle had begun to answer her, then to voluntarily impart information, then to display sincere reciprocal interest in her. His intelligence was unquestionable, his power daunting, and by the end of their twenty-two month tour of the globe and libraries, three trophies in hand, Hermione had found the idea of leaving him unpleasant.

"_Will you be staying in London?" he asked stiffly. After more than a year of easy camaraderie verging on flirtatious behavior, Hermione felt the gap between them yawning wide at their impending separation, and she scrambled, desirous of continuing their association, her initial purpose in seeking him out utterly eclipsed by what she had learned of him and with him._

"_I think so – I'd...I'd like to continue seeing you," she blurted, and colored, aware of her gaff. It was 1951, and women were not nearly so forward in expressing their wants._

"_You do?" he asked, and she could hear the tinge of nervous hope in his voice. It gave her the courage to push the rest of her words out of where they seemed ready to dive back down her throat._

"_Yes. We make a good team. Maybe we could hunt Hufflepuff's next."_

_His slow smile was guileless and charming, and Hermione could feel warmth steadily filling her stomach, expanding her like a balloon as he answered, "I'd like that."_

So she had stayed, and they had looked. The day they had finally talked Hepzibah Smith into parting with Hufflepuff's Badger Cup, promising her that they were founding a museum of Hogwarts' valuables – after all, a castle that had stood for a millennium had many fascinating artefacts – Tom had taken her out again to the first place they had eaten dinner together and shyly offered her an emerald set in a gold ring.

"_I know you didn't go to Hogwarts, but the emerald is for my house and the gold...I think you would have been a Gryffindor. Your honesty, courage and loyalty are traits they value highly, and would have made you a credit to their ranks."_

"_Do you value them?" Hermione asked. He arched an eyebrow at her as if she were blind._

"_I wouldn't be asking you to marry me if I didn't."_

Hermione remembered all-too-well her initial spurt of panic tied so intimately with pleasure that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. The future Lord Voldemort was asking her to marry him.

Except...he was no longer the man who would become Lord Voldemort. He had not killed Hepzibah Smith for the Hufflepuff cup, he had not stolen the Peverell ring from his mother's mad family. His one and only Horcrux, the diary made at sixteen, had been unmade after he had seen the look of total disgust on her features. The damage done by his re-integrating soul had hospitalized him for three months, but afterwards, the hardest edge of his ambition had faded, relegated to memory, to another track in time. He was more content merely to find, to focus on the creation of the museum they had promised, to exalt in learning about new magics, in linking disciplines together. His NEWTs were some of the highest on Hogwarts' record across the board, and Hermione found his mind exhilarating, sometimes so intoxicating it rivaled any drug she had ever read about. She had accepted his proposal without hesitation.

The few Death Eaters Riddle had gathered before her arrival in his world had gradually dissipated, and, as most of them settled down, their anger at his total derailment from dreams of glory also washed away, their lives consumed with living, with having their children, with learning to treasure the luxuries of peace above all else.

They had been married in three months in a simple ceremony with no more than a few friends present – her family lived in the future, his had been broken before his birth – but neither minded. They had taken a name not associated with the family that had abandoned him, a name from Slytherin's line, Peverell, as the marked beginning of their new lives together. They were content in one another.

And so they had remained.

"I don't believe it – Harry Snape has snatched the Snitch right out from under Draco Malfoy's nose! Hyde Park wins!" The bellowing of Ludo Bagman's much-practiced voice jolted Hermione once more to the present, just in time to see her husband buried underneath an avalanche of delighted youngsters, grinning at their instructor of many years as he laughed with them, a deep rumbling sound that, forty years later, still sent butterflies careening in Hermione's stomach.

She watched the bean-pole thin shape of Severus Snape vault into the field, followed by his wife, Lily, to grab their son and congratulate him, Lily peppering the slender face with kisses, causing Harry to twist away from her, the epitome of offended almost-teen dignity. Minnie Potter, daughter of Hestia and James Potter and named for Hogwarts' Transfiguration teacher, was ducking away from similar punishment at the hands of her proud parents with Ronald and Ginevra Weasley, the last of a long line of Quidditch players – the only child who had never tried for the Little League was Percy.

On the other side, Lucius and Rodolphus were together demonstrating a technique for Draco, while Bellatrix knelt in front of her youngest daughter and praised her three spectacular goals. Narcissa nodded her goodbyes to Molly, Mulciber fired a friendly parting shot at Ludo and everyone began to move towards the lavish picnic that was always spread at the end of the League season. Children were talking excitedly about their coming year – at least five members between the two teams were headed to Hogwarts, and as Hermione slipped an arm around her husband's waist she could hear the age-old argument about Harry's house placement between Severus and his jewel-eyed wife start up again.

"Are they still on about that? I hope he goes into Ravenclaw. It would serve them both right," she muttered. Tom squeezed her against him, burying his face briefly in the wild curls that she had not, in sixty years of living, learned how to tame.

"Not a chance. Severus is waging a losing battle. Harry'll be a Gryffindor, his heart is written on his sleeve. His younger sister, though...she has promise. She could be a Slytherin."

Ahead of them, eleven-year-old Draco was on an intercept course with his rival in the air. But there was no hint of the bully that Hermione had known as a child as the platinum blond stuck out his hand, the gesture absurdly adult for someone whose face still bore the roundness of babyhood. "Good game, Snape," he said. The black-haired Seeker murmured something gracious, Draco responded, and then they were running, broomsticks forgotten to be slung over their fathers' shoulders, potato salad a far more interesting prospect than any further worry about the match.

"What are you thinking about?" her husband asked as they slowly winded their way towards the enthusiastic picnickers.

"Can't you just read my mind?" she teased. She had met him late enough that he had already been studying the arts of mind-reading, but had stopped shortly thereafter, and she had never known him to attempt them on her.

"Of course," he dropped his voice mockingly, "I know everything...I always know."

"Hah! Except when one of our sons causes trouble and then you _never _know a thing about it," she retorted, but she was smiling up at him and there was no bite to the words.

"What are you thinking about?" he repeated as they lapsed into silence again.

Hermione studied the picture before her, the mixture of purebloods, half-bloods and Muggle-borns, Lucius Malfoy's inborn contempt subdued instead of sharpened over the years, easily talking to Ted Tonks, silver-headed cane flashing in the sunlight as he expounded upon his dislike for the current Ministry bureaucrats. Hermione had found she agreed with many of Malfoy senior's political stances – the whole world had shifted, but Cornelius Fudge was still stubborn as a mule and blind as a bat. Further on, towards the lemonade, Edith Crouch and Victoria Bagman erupted in screams of surprised laughter as their over-active sons doused them in water from their wand-tips, narrowly missing each other and drenching their mothers instead. Harry, Draco and Minnie were sprawled carelessly on the grass as the Weasley siblings carefully approached them, laden with drinks for the quintuplet.

"I'm watching them play. I was thinking about how content I am right now. My life has been...blessed," she finally answered quietly.

"Has been? And will continue to be – you're just sixty, Mrs. Peverell. After all, I still have to conquer the world." The laugh in his voice told her that such dominion was not on his mind, and he continued, "Or at least find Godric Gryffindor's shield. How _that_ could elude us for more than three decades..."

The arm Hermione had wrapped around her husband tightened. Her life _had _been blessed. And thanks to the last-minute efforts of a desperate, dying wizard, so had the rest of those around her.

Arm in arm with her husband, Hermione Peverell walked across the viridian green lawn to enjoy the future that she had – with a little skill and a great deal of luck – created.

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A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review and tell me what you think!

DanniV: Thank you – I'm glad you checked out the video, I really enjoyed it myself!

Violettachan: Hmm, yes...I thought about their moment of getting together, and that would have required a lot more backstory than I wanted to write. I hope it didn't detract too much from the fic for you! And I'm glad that you enjoyed the Bill-Hermione one-shot!

Jacobsbooo: Greyback-Hermione!? That is probably the most difficult pairing I've ever even heard of – what a challenge! I will definitely be looking into how to make that one happen. Thanks for the suggestion!

Maddie50: Heehee, I liked putting them at Krum's. Fanfiction plays a lot with whether he's good, bad, or indifferent and canon never gave us any answers. I'm glad you enjoyed this one too!

Shogi: Your review made me blush! Yeah, when I got the request for a Lucius-Hermione pairing, I was like, "What?! Gross!" But I actually ended up enjoying it. Thank you so much for the effusive praise...this little ficlet is entirely out-of-character for our dear Dark Lord, but I hope you don't mind too much! Sirius-Lily? Another one I haven't really considered...but it could definitely be interesting...hmmm. Wheels turning. Thanks, as always, for another thought-provoking idea!

Hessel: I've not explored much in the genre, having only just started being interested, thanks for the rec. And thank you for reading!


	8. Stay

Disclaimer: All of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is purely for fun, not profit.

Author's Note: As promised, this chapter has NOTHING to do with the previous piece featuring Voldemort and Hermione. CheetahLiv requested a Hermione-Snape one-shot, and I am replacing the Marriage Law fic with this one. There is a sequel in the works for _To Choose a World_, so that will now be published separately from this collections. This is a quick one-shot that popped into my head. Please note that while the story is not graphic, it does contain adultery. Enjoy your read!

Stay

The night was warm as she slipped out the back door onto the small patio, breathing deeply the dense air that heralded another summer storm.

In the flat over Diagon Alley, the city air was oppressive. Here, laden with the herbs growing just beyond the edges of her bare toes and the flowers loading branches that tumbled over the garden walls, the breeze-less night was soothing and rich, like bathing in chocolate pudding.

The sound of footsteps behind her, the deep baritone that did not belong to her husband. "I missed you."

Long, lean arms wrapped around her and she inhaled again, and now the garden's abundant scent carried his note as well, musky and light, a blend of the man and the potions he had brewed all his life.

"Stay," he murmured in her ear.

It was always the same entreaty, now as old as the relationship they had shared two blissful months at a time over the past five years.

"I wish I could," she whispered, and the clench of profound longing she hadn't been able to shed since the day he had walked back into her life squeezed just a little tighter.

He did not reply, pressing his lips to the top of her head. He never argued with her. It was he, after, all, who had provided the icily logical refusal in those first, hectic days of their affair.

"_I'll send an owl to the lawyer in the morning," she was pacing, nude, as his black eyes followed her from the bed. "We can have divorce papers ready in a few weeks—"_

"_No."_

_She whirled, surprise quickly ceding to anger as she stared at him. "'No'? What do you mean, 'no?' If you think I can just blithely continue in my marriage when I can't…when all I can think of…when you and I…"_

_He rose from the blankets unsmiling, wrapped his fingers around her upper arms and kissed her firmly. "No. You, with your colour-coded diagrams and intensive study schedules, you, with your obsessively organized research and breathtakingly logical mind…what will happen, if you suddenly want a divorce?"_

_She gazed into the face that had so quickly become the dearest sight in her world and forced herself to think. A divorce…Ron would want to know why. Hugo and Rose would be devastated, even if they never learned the reasons…and this new, precious, fragile love would be trampled by the press, judged by a world that had always demanded a right to her private life._

_More important than the papers were her friends. Her family. Harry and Ginny, the Weasley's, her parents, all of their friends…none would understand. Perhaps none should. Until he had returned to Britain, she had never looked twice at another man, never imagined another at her side, and now, explaining that to anyone…more than scrutiny and criticism, she would be ostracized, cast out. It would tear her family in half, and she would spend the rest of her life looking in on her children and those dearest to her from the outside. There were expectations she had to fulfill, a cage she had crafted that she had to live within, no matter how stifling the box._

"_All right," she breathed a long exhale, "no." Her brown eyes sought his for confirmation. "But I'm not giving you up."_

_Now he smiled, barely, but the warmth touched his eyes and filled her to her toes. "I never asked you to do that."_

There was only one other time they had discussed her marriage – later that first summer, as he had prepared to return to the school.

"_I will not see you until next June," he told her solemnly as she rose from the couch past midnight, frantically packing to ensure she would be home in time to wake her daughter and see her onto the train. It was Rose's first year._

"_What?" she asked, straightening to frown at him._

"_We should not see each other during the year when I am at Hogwarts. The conditions of my employment – and Minerva's nosiness – would make secrecy impossible."_

_She could only gape at him for a minute, struggling to fathom what ten months without him would be like, when she heard her own voice saying calmly, "I agree. You can hardly frequently leave Hogwarts for London, and there is no real reason for me to be in Hogsmeade unless I make a point of visiting Rose."_

"_In which case I am certain your husband and son would join you for the family outing." He said it without bitterness or mockery._

_He pulled her down onto his lap, pressing his lips to her neck as he murmured, "But I will very much look forward to sleeping with you next summer."_

That first year apart, she had half-hoped that the insanity of their insistent desires would fade – she was more than thirty now, the days of feeling like a teenager, giddy with passion, should have been long behind her. In the first weeks of his absence, she had missed him fiercely, and then it had indeed seemed to wane with the dying seasons. That hope had turned to ash with his first message at the end of June, the arrival of his thestral Patronus sending her heart into her mouth like any schoolgirl.

In the years since she had consented to wait though long months apart for their short, stolen summers together, enduring the blistering emotions by keeping them firmly in check, his mercilessly rigid control their saving grace. She never spoke of him, nor he of her. They never saw one another publically – going so far so to warn each other when daily tasks might run the risk of a face-to-face meeting. She could count on one hand the number of times she had seen him in daylight in the last five years.

But every year, on a warm night like this when it was easy to fantasize about a potions lab in the basement, about ham and eggs on a sunlit table, about two black, curly heads running around instead of the red-heads now attending Hogwarts, he would say it.

"_Stay."_

And she had yet to stop wishing that the answer could be yes.


End file.
